


we should open up (before it's all too much)

by disgruntledkittenface



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Vampire, American AU, Angst, Baker Harry, Banter, Dementia, Depressed Harry, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Harry's family are all OCs, Light D/s undertones, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Older Harry, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Support Group, Vampire Louis, caregiver for parent, frank discussions about death and dying, if late 30s is really considered older, mention's of Jay's passing, no mention of fizzy, no one is underage!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 04:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/pseuds/disgruntledkittenface
Summary: “I’m not–” Harry breaks off, his voice strangled as he clutches his phone in his hand. He takes a breath and looks up, trying to keep the tears threatening to spill over at bay. “Louis, I’m not very good company these days. I–”“Harry,” Louis interrupts, his raspy voice soft and soothing. “I get it. Sometimes it’s just easier to be alone, yeah?”Harry nods, blinking back the last of his tears.“But it can get lonely,” Louis states. Harry nods again even though it wasn’t a question, finally looking back at him. “So why don’t we try being alone, together?”Struggling with grieving and depression since his dad died, Harry has never felt so alone. It’s too much to cope with on his own, but he feels like a burden when he tries to open up with people.Then he meets Louis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, thank you's: [ queenofquiet17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofquiet17/pseuds/queenofquiet17), thank you for holding my hand and encouraging me to keep going; [ crinkle-eyed-boo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimmieRocks/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo), thank you for the gut check and your help with the summary; and [ YesIsAWorld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YesIsAWorld/pseuds/crinkle-eyed-boo), thank you so much both for betaing and validating me. I didn't let a lot of people be there for me in a real way while working on this, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate the way each of you showed up for me. I love you. 
> 
> This fic is the most personal thing I’ve ever written and it’s been really healing for me. It’s a pretty unflinching look at grief and depression, so please heed the tags. That said, the angst is actually pretty well balanced by the fluff, I promise! But if this is subject matter that you’re not comfortable with, I completely understand. 
> 
> Remember to practice self care before, during and after reading.

Harry’s not good at talking. To people. About things. 

Okay, that’s not strictly true. He can muster a smile and a pleasantry for the customers at work, and most of his coworkers. He’s a good listener, and his friends still say he offers good advice. Every once in awhile he gleans hometown gossip from Facebook to share with his mom during their weekly visits. He’s better than he was a year ago, probably. But he doesn’t enjoy it as much as he used to. He’s always felt a little awkward, especially in bigger groups. He’s always been a bit self conscious, at least until he knows someone well. But he hasn’t always been… like this. 

For one thing, he used to have more to talk about. 

He doesn’t mind when his friends complain about their jobs. His friend Liam likes to keep a running commentary throughout the day of his boss’s unreasonable expectations, and Harry used to be the same way. He’s just not really as invested in his job as he used to be. He likes the bakery where he works, and he was finally promoted to manager after having essentially done the job for years. He doesn’t want to do anything else. But he has to admit he’s been coasting a little. He doesn’t care enough about the minor annoyances during his workday anymore to relay them to anyone else. It’s boring enough to deal with an unreliable vendor at the time, let alone talk about it later. The things he used to vent about just don’t rate a mention anymore.

He doesn’t get out very much. Grabbing dinner or a drink with friends, the occasional concert or show downtown, checking out student exhibitions at the local university – all pastimes he’s enjoyed. In the past. But it’s more draining to go out than it used to be, and Harry tells himself he’s practicing self care when he chooses his couch over it. So it’s not like he has exciting weekend plans to talk about very often. 

His friend Niall always insists that he catch the latest Marvel movie but, other than that, it’s easier to stay home with his collection of rom coms. He used to obsessively follow each network’s slate of new shows, but he’s been cycling through old favorites lately. It’s like comfort food, he knows what’s he’s getting, he knows the end. He’s already been through the cycle of emotions, knows what he can handle and which parts to skip. It’s safer to start  _ Parks and Rec _ or  _ The West Wing _ over again from the beginning once he reaches the end than to try whatever new HBO show has taken over his social media feeds. 

He’s even worse when it comes to music. He hasn’t been one to follow all the new artists or hit singles since he was a teenager, but he’s completely hopeless now. He’d rather have a podcast or show on to keep him company. His best friend Nick routinely forgets this piece of information in his excitement over the tracks he discovers through his job as a DJ and constantly refers to songs or artists as though Harry knows what he’s talking about. Then Harry has to decide whether to pretend he knows who Lizzo is or ask Nick to explain and then pretend he’ll definitely give the song a listen later. Either way he feels stupid for not knowing, lame for not caring, and a little like he’s always lying. 

So when people try to engage him about the things they care about, that he used to care more about, he mostly just has blank stares to offer. Even when he does like something, when he gets excited about a new show he’s binged or something, he never feels like he gets excited enough. He used to regularly turn the dial up to 11, immediately becoming obsessed with whatever his new thing was, but lately he can’t seem to crank past 4 or 5. And then he just feels like a disappointment when he can’t match his friends’ enthusiasm level. 

Sometimes, when he’s having a good day or he wants to stave off the guilt, he really tries. He’ll reach out to a friend and start a conversation, send a link or ask a question, full of good intentions. Determined that he can be fun again. More often than not, he ends up feeling like he fucked it up somehow. He seems to always say the wrong thing, or the right thing the wrong way, and anxiety gnaws at him for hours afterward. And he has no one else to blame, it’s his fault for trying. 

It’s like he’s just on a different page from the people he’s trying to connect with.

He used to be able to joke around with people. His sense of humor tends toward dad jokes and puns, and he’s always delighted in the groans he’d earn from someone who then laughed anyway in spite of themselves. Lately, though, it’s like there’s too much pressure in trying to keep up. He’s too slow to catch on or his attempts fall flat, and he just ends up feeling like he’s lost a game he didn’t fully intend to play. 

And why does everything have to be a joke anyway? Now that he’s started to pay attention, Harry has noticed that it seems like hardly anyone’s default is to be straightforward or sincere. Everything has to be self deprecating or sarcastic or end with “lol.” It’s easier, Harry thinks. Comfortable. When he tries to open up about his feelings, he makes people uncomfortable and, if there’s one thing he’s learned in the past couple of years, it’s that people don’t like to be uncomfortable. So, when he wants to talk about something serious, about his feelings, he usually just… doesn’t. When someone tries to cheer him up and it doesn’t work, they just get mad. More often, though, they just don’t know what to say, and he’s tired of bringing conversations to a halting stop. 

He’s always been a sensitive person, felt things deeply, but he’s like a walking raw nerve nowadays. Most days, comments that he knows logically are completely innocuous wound him to his core. Petty slights get under his skin and stay there far longer than they used to. Every hurt feeling is heightened, causes a visceral reaction. He’s getting better at breathing through the pain, trying to be aware of people’s intentions before he reacts. 

Sometimes it works. He can resolve to let something go or, in the best case scenarios, when he’s honest about his feelings, trying not to let something fester, the other person understands where he’s coming from. 

Other times, it doesn’t work as well. Either he lashes out before he can stop himself, or when he tries to be honest, the words just don’t seem to come out right, no matter how much time he spends thinking them through first. Something gets slightly bent or twisted, or turned around altogether, and he winds up being the one to hurt people. They shut down, or worse, they take an exaggeratedly calm tone with him, handling him like a bomb that needs to be defused, when he meant no destruction in the first place. 

There are friends who have fallen off along the way, who had life changes of their own and got busy when Harry needed them most. Then there are the ones who stick around, who keep inviting him out and including him in their group chats. Sometimes he wonders why they even bother when he’s such an asshole most of the time. No one has ever said so, but he feels like he’s passed some kind of tacit time limit on how long he should have been like this. 

Deep down, Harry knows he wasn’t actually always awkward. He has vague memories, supported by family photos, of being kind of a show-off as a kid, more outgoing, the center of attention. Silly, fun, funny. Free. Something had changed when he got old enough to go to school, something dimmed, just a little, but not like now. He was still friendly, got along with people. But he’d known he was different, known the other boys didn’t  _ like _ like boys the way he did. So he got a little quieter. A little shy. Maybe introverted. But he was still okay.

Not like now. 

“Harry? Would you care to share today?”

It takes a long moment for Harry to snap out of his reverie, running a hand through his hair and looking around to locate the source of the voice. Paul, the leader of the group, nods encouragingly at him from across the small circle of uncomfortable folding chairs.

Harry is bad at talking to people about things, so he finds it strange that this weekly meeting of his grief support group is the one place where he can totally relax, outside his apartment. This group is all talk, designed that way decades ago probably by whatever psychology great invented the concept. These people, to varying degrees, all know what Harry has been through.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says gruffly, clearing his throat and sitting a little straighter. “I would.”

These people, he can talk to. 


	2. Chapter 2

“I want to quit Facebook,” Harry blurts out. A wave of embarrassment washes over him at how stupid it sounds, but he forges ahead when he sees heads nodding around him. “But I can’t really, and I’m more annoyed about it than I should be.”

“Okay, Harry,” Paul says, his patient tone soothing instead of condescending. “Let’s break it down, alright? First of all–”

“No shoulds!” 

Everyone’s heads swivel in the direction of the exclamation to where James, a jovial middle-aged man, is sitting a few seats down to Harry’s left.

“That’s right,” Paul nods, turning back to Harry. “We’re not worrying about how we ‘should’ feel, but rather on how we do feel, here. It’s a tough habit to break, but it’s important. So,” he claps his hands together. “Why do you want to quit Facebook, Harry?”

“Well, for one, Facebook sucks,” Harry declares with a wry smile. He picks at a loose thread near the hole in his black jeans. “I mean, it didn’t used to be this bad, right? I’m not even talking about, like, political stuff or anything, it’s more like… I hate the comments. Any comment section is, like, a competition for who can crack the best joke. And sometimes I just want stuff on my page to be about me. Novel concept, I know.”

Harry pauses to take a sip of the truly terrible coffee that Paul sets out each week.

“Anything specific happen, though?” Paul prods, eyebrows raised.

“Well, people say stupid stuff when someone dies,” Harry says, ruffling his hand through his hair as people murmur in agreement. “We all know that. But I did get a lot of nice comments when my dad died, and a lot of people I wouldn’t have expected sent me private messages. So I felt like maybe I could use it as an outlet, kind of, and post photos and stuff.”

Harry glances around the room, his eyes catching on a pale guy in the corner. He’s seen him here before, a few times, but he doesn’t know anything about him other than what he can tell by sneaking glances, which is hard not to do considering he’s gorgeous. 

“So, months ago,” Harry continues, trying to stay on track. “I shared this photo that came up in Facebook Memories, a photo of my dad. I don’t even remember which one, but I added a caption about like not being sure if I was happy or sad that it popped up like that, not really thinking about it, and posted it.”

“And what happened?” Paul asks, leaning forward in his chair. 

“So I got a few dumb comments,” Harry replies, blowing out a breath. “About how, like, it’s possible to be both at the same time, like I don’t fucking know that.” He glances at the list of rules posted on the wall behind Paul. “Fuck, shit, sorry.”

“It’s alright, Harry,” Paul says seriously. “The no swearing rule is more of a suggestion than anything, we all slip up.”

Harry flicks his eyes toward the corner in time to see the guy’s thin lips twist into a small smile. He’s too young for Harry, probably early twenties, with caramel colored hair that’s a touch too long and held back today by a headband. Harry quickly catalogs his other features – light eyes, a snub nose, sharp cheekbones – before looking back to Paul.

“Thanks,” he says sheepishly. “Anyway, it was really bothering me, I was getting really upset about it at work, my hands were shaking. And then I got another comment, this time from this girl I went to college with who I haven’t seen since, and she wrote this whole paragraph about emotions and being happy and sad at the same time using the movie Inside Out, which is her kid’s favorite or something, to explain it. And I got  _ so _ angry, like… I just… don’t fucking talk down to me like I’m a child about something I already understand better than you do, you know?” 

The woman next to Harry pats his shoulder. “I know what Paul’s going to say, that girl was trying to be kind, remember the intent, blah blah blah.”

Paul holds his hands up in mock surrender as the group members chuckle.

“You’re right, Cindy,” he says. “What about you, what are you going to say?”

“It would have pissed me off, too,” Cindy says simply, shrugging. “It’s condescending, and it’s rude. You can just say, like… I don’t know, say something nice about the photo, or go to the old reliable.”

“I’m thinking about you,” James chimes in again. “A classic.”

“Okay, so you don’t really enjoy engaging on Facebook,” Paul says, steering the conversation. “And it sounds like this comment was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back. But this was a few months ago?”

“Um, longer that maybe?” Harry says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not sure.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Paul asks. “From deleting your account?” 

Harry picks at the loose thread again, unraveling it and making the hole in his jeans slightly bigger as he gears up for sharing the rest of this story that he still feels kind of stupid for caring about. It’s just fucking Facebook.

“I was thinking about it this week,” he starts, looking around the room. The guy in the corner is watching him, his focus laser sharp, and Harry thinks he’d be unnerved if it were anyone else. “Because this guy I used to work with, maybe five years ago? His dad passed away, and literally the only way I would have found out about it is via Facebook. We’re not close, not really, we don’t hang out or have close friends in common. But I always liked him, we got along well, and I was sad to hear that he has to go through this now, and I wanted to, like, say something kind, you know?”

Everyone around him nods.

“But how fucked up is that?” Harry continues, ignoring the slip up this time. “That’s all I really use it for. Death notices.”

“Anyone else having the same problem?” Paul asks, looking around the group. 

A few people nod, and a woman who Harry hasn’t seen there before tentatively raises her hand.

“Yes,” Paul says warmly. “Meredith, would you like to share?”

The conversation centers around social media for awhile after that, with different group members sharing their own frustrations. As usual, they don’t really solve anything but it helps Harry to talk it through and see that he’s not the only one. He feels lighter by the time Paul calls the meeting to end and everyone stands to drag their chairs to the side of the room. He thinks for the thousandth time how glad he is that he finally gave this group a chance last year. Nothing is too trivial for Paul and the other members; they’re good about taking any problem seriously, no matter how seemingly small. 

Harry tracks the guy out of the corner of his eye as he puts his chair away, slings a backpack over his shoulder and wanders over to the snack table. His pale skin almost glows as he smiles and nods at people, then pretends to nibble on a cookie. Harry narrows his eyes, a little ruffled. The coffee may be terrible, but the cookies are delicious – he should know, he made them himself at work that day. It had only taken one meeting for him to approach Paul and offer to help provide snacks; the store-bought sugar cookies on offer that day, now  _ those _ were cookies he’d expect people to only pretend to enjoy. 

But he’d brought two clearly labeled trays of classic chocolate chip cookies, one with nuts and one without, baked to chewy perfection. Sure, they’re not served warm or anything, but Harry used only brown sugar, guaranteeing a deeper, richer flavor to help improve the taste of the accompanying coffee that Paul burns every week. He’d personally tested one from each batch. In his professional opinion, those cookies are perfect.

So why is this guy only pretending to eat his?

As Harry observes from down the table, the guy laughs politely at whatever James is going on about, slips his cookie into a napkin  _ and throws it away. _ Harry’s jaw literally drops and, without actually deciding to, he starts walking over to the guy, who’s wiping off his mouth as though he’s just consumed food instead of wasting it.

He’s reached the other end of the table before he’s had a chance to think of anything to say and the guy looks up at him with bright, inquisitive eyes. Now that Harry’s up close, he can see he was right about the guy being young (too young), but there’s something about him, the air of an old soul lurking below the IT IS WHAT IT IS tattoo peeking out of the top of his tank top, that takes the righteously angry winds out of his sails.

“Harry, right?” The guy tugs up the sleeve of the dark gray hoodie he’s wearing over his lighter gray tank and holds a hand out for Harry to shake. “Louis.”

That  _ voice. _ Oh, Harry is in trouble. That’s not the voice of a young man, that’s the voice of a  _ man. _ It’s a bit scratchy, higher than Harry’s, and melodic. A strand of authority runs through the few words he’s spoken so far, commanding Harry’s attention. Hearing it draws him instinctively closer to the guy he’s been quietly admiring from across the room for weeks who he’s just now realizing stands an inch or two shorter than him (while Harry’s in his boots anyway). He barely manages not to flinch when he takes Louis’ smaller hand in his, the skin cool to the touch. He has a firm grasp, and Harry suspects that Louis is stronger than he is, despite his compact size.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Louis says plainly, not mincing the words so many people are tentative to broach. “How long has it been?”

Harry clears his throat, suddenly wishing he hadn’t thrown out his plastic cup of acrid coffee now that his mouth has gone dry.

“Um,” he flounders, the information seared in his brain just on the tip of his tongue as Louis gently releases his hand. He shoves it through his curly hair. “Um, almost two and a half years now. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Spread to the liver.”

Louis winces and shakes his head, a reaction Harry is familiar with and doesn’t generally appreciate, but then Louis reaches out and gives Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“I’m really sorry,” he murmurs. “Was it–”

“Quick? Yeah,” Harry says, raking both hands through his hair now to try and hide how they’ve started to shake. “He went into the ER with shortness of breath one night and seven weeks later, he was gone.”

Louis opens his mouth to say something and Harry instinctively leans in closer to hear, but they’re interrupted by Paul, clapping a hand on Harry’s back.

“Sorry, guys,” he says warmly, “but we need to clear out, there’s an AA meeting here later they need to set up for.”

Harry shakes his head to clear it; he’d only had eyes for Louis the past few minutes and hadn’t even noticed the other group members filing out. The two of them and Paul are the ones left. 

“No problem, Paul,” Louis says smoothly, hitching the loose strap of his backpack over his shoulder and looking to Harry. “Come on, Harry, I’ll walk you out.”

Harry follows him without sparing a thought for Paul or the leftover cookies, just falls immediately into step with Louis and matches his shorter stride through the hallway and up the stairs to the exit of the small church that hosts their group each week. As they walk out, Louis glances backward with a smirk, but he turns to talk to Harry before Harry can think much of it.

“So, Harry,” Louis says, slowing to a stop at the sidewalk. “I know in group, we’re supposed to, like, talk about problems instead of try to fix them, but I kind of… had a suggestion for you? If that’s okay?”

It takes Harry a moment to answer, too distracted by the way the moonlight falls over Louis’ pale skin. If he’d thought Louis was glowing inside, he’d had no idea what the cool night air had in store for him.

“Um…” Harry struggles to remember the question, and gives in and nods instead, hoping Louis’ answer will make the context clear.

“Obviously, Facebook sucks,” Louis starts, as Harry tries to see what color exactly his eyes are without being too obvious. “I get why you don’t feel like you can’t really quit, but have you tried deleting the app from your phone?”

Harry coughs as he tries to redirect his brain from debating slate versus azure.

“No, no,” Harry answers, pulling his phone from his back pocket and lamely holding it up. “Still have the app, and the fucking Messenger one, too.”

Louis grins, and Harry feels like he’s gotten an answer to a test question right or something. For once, he’s gotten it right and not all wrong. Maybe he and this Louis are on the same page.

“I know, right,” Louis laughs, reaching out and taking Harry’s phone from him. “That’s so shady having a separate app for messages. But look, let’s say you take the apps off for awhile, just check it from your laptop or whatever every once in a while. Give yourself some space. Do you think that might help?”

Louis looks up at him so earnestly, even sweetly, that Harry would have said yes to anything. Luckily for him, Louis’ suggestion is a decent one. One he should have thought of himself by now.

“That’s a really good idea, Louis,” Harry says almost bashfully, to his mild horror. What is he going to do next, bat his eyelashes? “Some space would be good.”

“Here, unlock this,” Louis says, taking a step closer to Harry and lingering there after Harry has swiped at the screen. “I’ll help.”

Harry watches Louis’ face as he stares at the phone, wrinkling his brow as he uninstalls one app but disables the other, since it came preloaded on the phone. He bites his lip as he studies Louis’ features; the curved eyebrows, long dark lashes framing those light eyes, the cute little snub nose, the sharp cheekbones atop the perfect amount of reddish scruff. The lips, though. Harry can’t manage to drag his eyes away from those lips, thin and the palest of pinks, pressed together in almost a frown as Louis taps away.

“Got it,” he murmurs, glancing up. The corners of that lovely mouth twitch into a smile when he catches Harry staring. “Can I, um… I know this is, like, really forward or whatever, but can I put my number in here, too?”

Harry stumbles back a step at that, the unexpected request breaking the strange hold Louis’ beauty has over him. 

“What, um… why?” Harry laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, just… um… why?”

“Why?” Louis says, his light eyes sparkling as he grins mischievously. “Harry, come on. You must know why. Look at you, you’re gorgeous.”

Harry barks an embarrassingly loud laugh at the compliment. It’s been a long time since he got one like that, he has no idea how to react appropriately anymore. 

So much for the same page.

“You’ve got those lovely brown curls,” Louis muses, looking Harry up and down, almost like a piece of meat. Somehow it’s thrilling instead of insulting, and Harry’s heartbeat picks up. As if Louis can tell, his grin twists into a smirk. “I love the few strands of silver, you’re going to be a real silver fox one day. And your eyes are the nicest shade of green, with these little gold flecks. Nice little body, too, I’m guessing yoga?”

Harry manages a nod as all the blood in his body rushes to cheeks. He hasn’t blushed like this in years. It’s equal parts embarrassing and exhilarating.

“Thought so,” Louis says approvingly. “You seem like one of them avocado toast types. I’ve noticed you for a couple weeks now, you’re not just really hot, you’re, like… kind. You just seem decent, you know?”

“Not really,” Harry says truthfully, stuffing his hands in his pockets to give his hair a break. At this point, he’s going to start ripping tufts out of it.

“You help set up the chairs before the meetings start,” Louis says seriously, counting off on his fingers. “You always get Mary a cup of coffee because she’s not steady on her feet. You bring  _ snacks, _ Harry. If that’s not treating people with kindness, I don’t know what is.” 

“Snacks that some people don’t actually eat,” Harry says, injecting as much meaning into the words as he can. He thought Louis might blush at that, but his skin remains pale and porcelain. “Why did you throw your cookie away?”

“Ah, you caught me, then?” Louis asks, wincing again. “Sorry, all compliments to the chef, or baker rather, but chocolate chip just isn’t my favorite. I took one without looking at the little sign you put out, and then I didn’t want to put it back because of germs, and yeah…”

Harry raises his eyebrows, doubting Louis’ story even though he can’t put his finger on why, but Louis interrupts him before he can press the issue.

“Anyway, Harold, up for it?”

“Up for what?” Harry laughs, a frisson of excitement going through him at the nickname. He’s heard it before, from friends and the odd boyfriend or two, but something about the way it sounds in Louis’ dulcet tone has his resistance breaking down.

Louis waves Harry’s phone at him. “I’ll give you my number? And preferably you’ll give me yours, too?”

Harry crosses his arms and looks at Louis, taking a moment to try and regain his bearings. He feels a bit slow to catch on, but this time it’s because he just can’t believe someone like Louis is interested in someone like him. It probably never would have made sense to him.

“How old are you, Louis?” 

“Twenty-four,” Louis says confidently as he crosses his arms, matching Harry’s stance. “How old are  _ you?” _

Harry laughs. Twenty-four years old. He doesn’t think he’s dated anyone that young since he was twenty-four.

“I’m thirty-eight,” Harry says, fully expecting Louis to toss his phone at him and run for the hills. To his astonishment, Louis smiles down at the phone and starts tapping at the keyboard. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you my number,” Louis says distractedly before holding the phone out at last. “Louis Tomlinson, that’s me. Sorry, but I have to be off soon and you’re taking a really long time to catch up, so I thought I’d speed things along.”

“I’m not–” Harry breaks off, his voice strangled as he clutches his phone in his hand. He takes a breath and looks up, trying to keep the tears threatening to spill over at bay. “Louis, I’m not very good company these days. I–”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, his raspy voice soft and soothing. “I get it. Sometimes it’s just easier to be alone, yeah?”

Harry nods, blinking back the last of his tears.

“But it can get lonely,” Louis states. Harry nods again even though it wasn’t a question, finally looking back at him. “So why don’t we try being alone, together?”

Harry stares at Louis disbelievingly. “Does that line ever actually work?”

“You tell me.” 

Louis meets his gaze unflinchingly and Harry can’t help relenting. He holds his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “We can be alone, together. As friends.”

“I can work with that,” Louis says, rubbing his surely still cold hands together. Harry briefly wonders why he doesn’t zip his hoodie up, he must be freezing. “But I have a feeling about you, Harry. I bet you’re really good company. And at some point, I’ll be able to convince you that you are as gorgeous as I say you are, and as kind. And maybe then you’ll give me a real chance.”

“If you still want one,” Harry mumbles, unable to stop himself. He closes his eyes, berating himself for trying to drive Louis away, but when he opens them, Louis is still there, smiling back at him. “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be,” Louis says airily, starting to walk away backward, eyes locked with Harry’s. “We’ll get there. But you have to text me, okay? We can watch a movie or something. Maybe  _ The Social Network.” _

Harry barks another embarrassing laugh and claps a hand over his mouth, rolling his eyes at himself and at Louis.

“It’s a date,” he calls out, only realizing his mistake when Louis’ eyes light up. “No, not–”

“No take backs, Harold!” Louis laughs, turning to jog lightly down the street toward the university campus. He glances over his shoulder and waves, yelling, “It’s a date!”

Harry hides his face in his hands. 

Fuck. It’s a date.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry tries to concentrate on entering the next month’s schedule into the system, he really does, but the words on the screen swim around in front of him as the night before replays in his head. It almost doesn’t seem real, like it could have been a dream, but the receipt is right there in the contacts on his phone.

Louis Tomlinson is very real.

Harry glares at his phone, face side up next to his laptop on the table where he’s set up camp this morning. It’s bright and airy out in the seating area of the bakery, and he’s found that the customers like seeing him there. He can usually remember a regular order, even though it’s been years since he’s worked the till other than when they’re in a pinch, and he’s gotten very good at subtly intervening when a customer is rude to one of his employees. 

Unfortunately, this seating arrangement means there are lots of potential witnesses as Harry looks to his phone for the millionth time, debating whether or not to text a boy. He’d feel like a teenager, if they’d had texting when he was one. Fuck. He’s so ancient. There’s just no way Louis is actually interested in him. He’s young, although not quite as young as Harry had expected, and so, so pretty, and there’s just something about him that Harry can’t shake, even if he did throw away a perfectly good cookie the night before. 

But Louis had given Harry his number, practically against Harry’s will. 

He’s so out of practice, though. He has no idea what he would even write in a text, and he refuses to ask for help. Maybe he won’t text him. He can play it cool for possibly the first time in his life, and spend the next six days plotting which type of cookie to bake for the next group meeting, and then after Louis eats one, then maybe Harry can just… ask him out. That should be easy, right? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

_ Lemon. _ That’s it. 

Harry abandons his laptop altogether and walks over to peer inside one of the glass cases full of baked goods. They added a new lemon cookie to the menu about a month ago, based off one of their scone recipes, and it’s done really well so far. The flavor is strong thanks to the triple shot of real lemon – fresh lemon juice and fresh lemon zest in the batter, then once the cookies are baked to chewy perfection, topped off with candied lemon pieces. It’s a little too strong for some people, but if Louis passed on classic chocolate chip, then maybe he wants something bold. 

Harry can do bold.

Who is he kidding, Harry can’t do bold. He walks back to his table with his tail between his legs.  _ Just ask him out. That should be easy. _ Harry rolls his eyes at himself. Louis was probably just being nice, taking pity on the old man who didn’t even realize he could take social media apps off his phone. He should just save his number for the next time Molly bugs him to join Tumblr, maybe he offers tutorials to the elderly in his free time.

Harry slumps in his chair, wishing he’d grabbed a coffee refill while he was up, and just as his spiral threatens to consume him, a petite brunette bursts through the door trilling his name.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” she exclaims, bouncing over to him and plopping down in the seat across the table. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Hi, Jade,” he says, smiling at his friend despite his suddenly foul mood. “I don’t know, give up on me completely?”

Their old joke, one that’s lasted since their days at the university down the road, falls flat. Jade does that understanding head tilt thing that everyone apparently learns when a friend starts to go through a hard time and reaches across the table to run her fingers through his hair.

“You’re positively shaggy, babe,” she says reproachfully, shaking her head as she assesses his. “Why haven’t you made an appointment for a trim?” She narrows her eyes and sits up straighter. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No,” Harry says honestly, trying to stifle the anxiety that wants to beat him up over the failed attempt at humor. “I just keep forgetting. If you weren’t just down the street, I’d probably go a year without remembering to make an appointment.”

“Well, as much as we all loved your long hair days,” Jade says, squeezing Harry’s hand, “and trust me, we all did, it’s time to get you cleaned up. Regular trims will help keep your hair healthy even if you want to grow it out again.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry bites back a smile. She knows she’s won, no use giving her excuses to gloat. “I’ll call this afternoon, set it up.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that, I’m afraid,” Jade says sweetly. She glances over her shoulder and calls out, “Sarah, I’m kidnapping Harry for an hour, that alright?”

“Take my boss, please,” Sarah deadpans from behind the counter. Jade laughs as Harry bristles.

It’s insubordination is what it is. 

“It’s slow right now,” Sarah continues, wiping up the counter. “Probably ’cause he’s been scaring off the customers, making that frowny frog face at his phone all morning.”

“Oh, really,” Jade says, her eyes lighting up as she turns back to Harry. “Interesting, I haven’t seen that look on him in a long time. Not since… oh, what was his name, the one that you tried to Secret into calling?”

“A lot of people use vision boards,” Harry mutters, hoping she doesn’t dredge up the name. Xander was not one of his better judgment calls.

“Come on, babes, up up up,” Jade chants, standing and taking Harry’s hands to tug. “You’re coming with me, and you’re going to tell your old friend Jade all about it.” 

“Can I get a cup of coffee first?” Harry grumbles good-naturedly, allowing his friend to pull him up.

“No, we have better coffee at the salon,” Jade says matter-of-factly, holding one of his hands firmly as she strides toward the door, ignoring his indignant squawk. Harry knows better than to put up a fight, letting himself be led out of the bakery and down the block to the hair salon that Jade opened with three of their friends about ten years ago. He remembers their opening party like it was yesterday. 

Harry wonders if he’ll ever stop marveling at being old enough to have memories from ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. Other adults must actually feel like adults. Right? Maybe there’s some paperwork he hasn’t filled out or something. 

The bell over the door to the salon distracts Harry from his bordering on morbid thoughts and a gaggle of female voices call out his name like he’s just walked into the Cheers bar or something. 

“Ladies, hello.” 

He waves at Jesy and Leigh-Anne, who are huddled together poring over receipts behind the register, and their warm smiles buoy his spirits so much that he adds a silly little bow before he starts to follow Jade to the sinks at the back.

"Harry," Perrie calls out from her station, looking up from the tin foil she’s folding over a lock of her client's hair that’s been brushed with coloring. "How's your mom doing?"

"About the same," Harry replies, running a hand through his soon to be trimmed hair and trying to keep his tone light. He offers a small smile to Perrie’s client, sure the woman has visited the bakery before.

"Give her our love, okay?"

"Will do," he promises, hastening to join Jade where she's waiting for him, tapping her foot but grinning.

She throws a black apron on and juts her chin toward the end of the row of sinks as she wraps the ties around her tiny waist.

“Down at the end today,” she instructs him, walking around to the small space between the sinks and the shelves on the wall behind them as Harry takes his seat. 

As much as Harry has always liked having his hair played with and pet, he dreads getting it cut. It’s just uncomfortable to lean back in this contraption and let someone else, even Jade, wash it. No matter how careful she is, there’s always a drip or two of water down his face, or worse, in his ear. And she always asks him questions when he’s in this weird prone position with water rushing by his ears and can’t hear very well. At least during this part, he doesn’t have to look at his reflection in the mirror while he has one of those smocks on. Has anyone ever looked attractive covered in one with their hair all wet? Harry doesn’t think so. 

“Do you really want coffee when I’m done shampooing?” Jade asks, as she tests the temperature of the water on her hand before slowly getting Harry’s admittedly shaggy hair wet.

He nods, or tries to anyway, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. 

“Okay, babes,” she replies, setting down the water spray thingy (oh, that’s going to bother Harry all day until he can remember what that thingy is called) and grabbing the shampoo. “Hazelnut today, it’s so yummy.”

Harry grimaces. He’d lost the taste for flavored coffee sometime in his mid-twenties, he can’t recall exactly when, but Jade only remembers that he used to order it at the tiny bakery – if you can call it that when they don’t bake their own baked goods – inside the student union on their way to class. Oh, well. One cup won’t kill him. 

Shit. 

Harry grimaces, hoping Jade doesn’t notice as she works on his hair and hums along to the song playing in the background. He hates that those kind of expressions have started to creep their way back into his vocabulary. For a long time, he’d flinched at every non-literal use of the word dead and its variations, like every time Jade would excitedly start a story with “you’re going to die.” Or the casual way Liam constantly declares he would die for something, like Tom Holland as Spiderman or a rescue puppy who took a liking to him once. Or when Jesy became obsessed with the movie  _ A Simple Favor _ and kept quote-tweeting gifs of Blake Lively in costume, adding “I welcome death.” 

And it’s not just variations of “dead.” It’s photos of tombstones in memes. It’s viral jokes Niall RTs on Twitter, like the one last week about taking the bouquet off a casket at a funeral to throw into the crowd and see who’s next. It’s been awhile since a joke like that hurt so much, but that one had felt like an actual slap to his face. And “RIP,” people say “RIP” all the time, even “RIP me,” which they seem to use in a variety of ways, as far as Harry can tell, including as shorthand for “something I have to do is slightly harder than expected.” 

He’d never noticed before just how commonly people use those expressions in everyday conversations and jokes. It’s constant, relentless really, and no one else is bothered by it. Or maybe they are and Harry doesn’t know because he never feels quite comfortable enough to bring it up, hyper aware of all the ways he’s already not fun to be around and not in a hurry to add another. And he’s never liked the idea of people having to edit themselves because of him. Besides, it’s not just his friends he’s been out of step with, it’s like his entire generation; he just doesn’t get the humor anymore. Not that it matters much at this point, since he’s slowly starting to use those expressions again himself, mentally at least, now that they don’t conjure up vivid images of seeing the weeks leading up to an actual death, the signs of a body literally shutting down, quite so much. 

He still hates it, though. Even though he does the same thing, just in other ways – he still says “drink the kool aid,” even after reading books about Jim Jones and learning that most people who died at Jonestown didn’t actually drink the kool aid voluntarily. He says starving instead of hungry, he’s referred to guys with crushes on Jade as her stalkers. If it doesn’t affect him personally, he’s not so literal about it. They’re just expressions. 

He used to like thinking about language and how slang evolves; now he just wants to ignore it. And he knows logically using those expressions again is a good thing, he has distance, he’s healing in a small way. But it still seems wrong somehow, disrespectful or something, to pick up that habit again like nothing had ever happened. 

The sound of Jade laughing startles Harry and he realizes that she’s been chattering away about something, god knows what, while he was lost in thought. He gets by with a few hums of agreement as she finishes up, hoping she didn’t notice he was a million miles away. When she’s done rinsing out the last of the coconut conditioner, she has Harry sit up while she twists a towel around his dripping hair that’s going to smell like sunscreen for the rest of the day. Another reason he doesn’t relish these appointments. 

“Go on,” she says, drying her hands on a smaller towel. “I’ll get your coffee and meet you at my station.”

Harry walks back down the wide center aisle of the salon, smiling as he passes by the other stations but skipping nods as he tries to hold his neck steady so the towel doesn’t slip off his head. He settles in the seat by the front window that Jade had won rock-paper-scissors for when the girls first opened and resists the urge to towel dry his own hair, knowing Jade would level him with one look if he interfered with her process. 

It only takes a minute before she joins him at her station, setting the steaming hot cup of fragrant coffee on the counter in front of him to cool. She shimmies to the song playing now, which must have changed since the one she was humming to earlier but sounds indistinguishable to Harry, and secures his smock before setting to work toweling off his hair. Once she’s satisfied, she puts her hands on his shoulders and makes eye contact in the mirror. 

“Just a trim, babe?” she asks, moving a hand to run her fingers through his hair and eyeing it critically.

“Yes, babe,” he quips, earning a light smack to the back of his head. He’s always liked to tease her about the casual term of endearment she uses for everyone in their circle, it’s led to some interesting misunderstandings over the years, but it’s been awhile since he’s initiated this kind of light-hearted exchange.

It feels good. 

“Alright,  _ babe,” _ she says, starting to section off the longer hair at the front and pin it up, “Did you catch up on  _ Riverdale?” _

“Yeah.”

“Chad fucking Michael Murray, I cannot believe he’s old enough to play a parent now.”

“Well, technically–”

“Although I guess if Luke Perry is old enough…”

Harry closes his eyes as he mentally corrects her “is” to “was.” He’s had enough distance from his dad’s passing that the story breaking a couple of months ago hadn’t sent him into a deeper depression like some other high-profile celebrity deaths have, but it had still been hard to get texts about Luke Perry’s death in all caps like it was entertainment news instead of a tragedy.

“Fucking love this cult storyline, don’t you?”

“Yeah, love it.”

“Cheryl still your favorite?”

“Mm-hm, yeah.”

“Still hate Archie with the fire of a thousand suns?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“What’s the name of the boy you want to text?”

“Louis.”

“Aha!” Jade crows, beaming at him triumphantly in the mirror. She squeezes his shoulders. “I can’t believe that still works. You fall for it every time.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry mutters, feeling stupid and more annoyed about it than he should be. This is the kind of thing they've laughed about a hundred times, but if he's not laughing then it's more laughing at than with, isn't it? At least the dumb smock is covering how his hands are shaking. 

“Okay, tilt your head down a little,” Jade says, gently but firmly guiding him. “And tell me about Louis.”

“There’s nothing to tell, really,” Harry says, keeping his eyes focused on his boots so he doesn’t accidentally move his head while Jade’s cutting his hair.

“Bullshit.”

“Bull true,” Harry protests. It’s weak even to his ears, so he gives up. Jade always gets her way in the end anyway. “He’s just a guy I met in group this week.”

“Oh,” Jade says, stilling her hands for a moment as she processes the information. “Oh, okay. What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly, realizing he didn’t learn anything about Louis aside from his name and age the night before. “He’s just a guy who’s way too young for me but gave me his number anyway.”

“Too young?” Jade asks, brushing off the back of Harry’s neck and causing him to shiver. “How young is too young?”

“Twenty-four,” Harry replies, hoping that’s the end of it but knowing it isn’t.

“Okay, that’s young,” Jade concedes, unpinning a lock of Harry’s curls. “But I don’t think it’s too young. Old enough to vote, drink, graduate college–”

“I think he might be a student,” Harry says, reaching a hand up to push a strand of hair out of his eyes and earning a cluck from Jade. “He had a backpack, and he was headed toward campus from the meeting.”

“Could be a grad student,” Jade says, snipping efficiently. “Maybe he’s a TA or maybe–”

“Or maybe he’s twenty-four and he was off to go hang out with other twenty-four-year olds doing whatever it is that twenty-four-year olds do nowadays.”

“Ha ha,” Jade says, her voice devoid of mirth. “You’re right, we’re  _ so _ old, Harry, might as well pack it in at the retirement home. Hand me my cane, will you? These old bones are so weary.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, having forgotten he was deprecating his friend when he was just trying to be self deprecating. “I just… I don’t think I have enough, like, energy? To keep up with someone like him.”

“You’ll never know unless you try,” Jade says, entirely too reasonably. “If you were really glaring at your phone like Sarah said, you’re at least a little interested in seeing. Go on, tell me about how you met, I need all the details so I can advise you properly.”

Harry rolls his eyes fondly. 

“Okay,” he says, letting Jade tilt his chin to the right as she trims a different section of curls. “I’ve noticed him there a few times, but he’s never shared and I hadn’t talked to him. But last night, I saw him throw away one of the cookies–”

“He threw one of your cookies away?” Jade interrupts, scandalized. “What kind?”

“Chocolate chip,” Harry answers, happy to have someone understanding to share that tidbit with. “Can you believe that? Just tossed it in the trash.”

“No, frankly,” Jade replies, not looking up from her work. “I would literally eat your cookies  _ from _ the trash, that’s how good they are.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, mollified. “So I walked over to him, and I don’t even know what I was going to say – what would I have even said? ‘How dare you?’ But before I got a word out, he introduced himself and he asked about my dad, and then we had to leave ’cause the church needed the room.”

“Uh huh,” Jade murmurs, holding up a lock of Harry’s hair between her fingers and snipping at the ends with the scissors in her other hand. “And how did you get his number?”

“So he took my phone when we got outside,” Harry explains. His eyes land on the cup of coffee on the counter, and he hopes she doesn’t make him take it when he leaves. “Um, he suggested deleting the Facebook app because I was complaining about Facebook during the meeting, and then he asked if he could put his number in.”

“Smooth,” Jade nods appreciatively. She sets down her scissors and picks up a bottle of product, squeezing out a dollop and rubbing her hands together before running them through Harry’s trimmed damp hair. “Wait, so he asked you if he could give you his number? Babes, that’s so exciting!”

“I mean, I guess it is,” Harry admits, letting a tiny bit of excitement creep in before trying to stamp it out. “But, I just…”

“Just what?” Jade picks up the hair dryer, and fastens the diffuser on the end as she waits for Harry to explain.

“Just… I’m not, I don’t… he’s not going to enjoy spending time with me, I don’t even enjoy spending time with me, so what’s the point? He’s just going to end up disappointed.”

“Harry,” Jade says, meeting his eyes in the mirror as her shoulders slump. “I don’t think you know how hard it is to hear you talk about yourself like that. You’re breaking my heart, babes.”

Harry tries to think of something to say, torn between warring emotions. If Jade thinks it’s hard to hear, he wonders what she’d think of living it. He shouldn’t have opened up about this, he’s just disappointing her like he does everyone else. 

“Listen,” she says, taking a step closer and leaning against the counter so she can look him in the eye instead of through the mirror. “You’ve always been hard on yourself, ever since I’ve known you. But you have got to start giving yourself a break. You’ve been through a trauma, and I know if our positions were reversed, you’d be a hell of a lot kinder to me than you’re being to yourself right now.”

Harry’s vision goes blurry as tears pool in his eyes and quickly start to spill over, and Jade wraps her arms around him as he lets himself go for a minute. 

“Jesus,” he says huskily, wiping tears away. “Look at me, this is like something about of  _ Steel Magnolias.” _

“Drink your coffee, Harry,” Jade says with a wink, her Southern accent exaggerated and cheesy and wonderful. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching forward and grabbing the small cup she’d set on the counter for him. Deep down, he knows. It’s just hard not to let his brain twist things around. “Love you, too. Babe.”

Jade brandishes her hair dryer menacingly, but laughs. 

“Alright, you little shit,” she says, grinning. “Before I turn this on and you pretend you can’t hear me, I want you to promise me you’ll text him. Just give it a chance, see where it goes. Okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Harry promises over the lid of his cup. “I’ll give it a chance.”

“Who knows,” Jade muses as she fiddles with the settings. “He might turn out to be exactly what you need.”


	4. Chapter 4

Harry thinks about texting Louis all the way back to the bakery, as he weaves his way through the other pedestrians on the sidewalk downtown and waves at the business proprietors he knows.

He thinks about it as he eats the salad he’d packed for lunch in the backroom, barely tasting the pieces of chicken he’d thrown in for protein and tuning out Sarah recounting the disastrous band practice she’d suffered through the night before. 

He thinks about it as he pours a cup of coffee, desperately needing the caffeine fix that the few sips of Jade’s hazelnut coffee hadn’t provided and barely able to wait until the mug of dark roast has cooled off to start drinking it. 

He thinks about it as he forces himself to actually enter the schedule into the system this time and as he signs off on the invoices he’s let pile up on his desk, a task he could do in his sleep at this point so he’s not sure why he lets himself procrastinate doing it so often. 

He thinks about it as he walks home and his cat Evie greets him at the door, winding around his feet and trying to trip him, a daily ritual Harry has long since given up trying to understand. 

He takes a brief pause from thinking about texting Louis as he debates taking a shower that night or the next morning; he really hates the feel of the product in hair but he also feels a little lazy. Showering tonight wins out in the end, it always does, so Harry resumes thinking about texting Louis as he lathers and rinses his body, uses his razor to trim his happy trail and finally washes the coconut out of his hair. 

It’s a testament to how tired he is that his thoughts don’t even turn dirty in the shower, he just ponders emojis – he’s terrible with the ones that are faces with different expressions, they make him feel face blind or something. But maybe Louis likes emojis, he seems cool enough to pull off the one with sunglasses, or the upside down smiley face one that Harry never knows the proper context for. God, this is a minefield. Harry is half grateful he didn’t have to deal with this when he was younger and half resentful, he could use the experience right about now. 

Harry lingers under the warm water for too long, reluctantly shutting it off when he hears Evie howl from the kitchen since he didn’t feed her before hopping in the shower. Rookie mistake. He towels off quickly, getting his wet hair as dry as he can before working a dollop of the argan oil that Jade convinced him to add to his routine through the damp strands. Thoughts of Louis’ phone number burning a hole in pocket all day creep back in as he moisturizes, yet still don’t turn dirty. Fuck, he’s tired. Or old. Or both. 

Evie watches him reproachfully from the hallway as he finishes up, and he pats her furry head on his way to his bedroom. His phone practically glows from where he’d tossed it onto the bed next to his clothes earlier, but he ignores it when his stomach lets out a growl. After hastily pulling on an old pair of gray joggers and his threadbare Rolling Stones t-shirt, he heads into the kitchen to get them both some dinner. 

Harry weighs the pros and cons of texting some variation of Louis’ “Up for it?” question as he sets down a fresh bowl of food for Evie, who promptly starts scarfing down on it like she hasn’t eaten in a week, and then starts heating up some leftover lasagna. He watches the plate inside the microwave rotate as two columns in his head fill up.

Pro: It’s flirty.

Con: It might be too flirty.

Pro: It’s clever to reference their conversation from the night before.

Con: Maybe it’s creepy to reference their conversation.

Pro: But maybe Louis will be pleased that Harry remembered him saying that.

Con: But maybe Louis doesn’t even remember saying that.

Pro: It’ll help Harry hone his message, keep it short and simple. “Hi, it’s Harry. Still up for it?”

Con: “Still up for it?” sounds a like booty call.

The microwave dings just as it’s occurring to Harry that a booty call might be what Louis  _ wants.  _ And that puts things into focus for him: If he’s being honest, Harry certainly wouldn’t mind a booty call (he’d gotten a good look at Louis’ last night as he walked away), but he doesn’t want  _ just _ a booty call. Fuck. He has to text him.

But he has to eat first. He pulls the plate out of the microwave, grabs a fork and heads into the living room. Evie and an old episode of  _ Friends _ keep him company as he eats, the family recipe always tasting a little better leftover and heated up than made fresh. Harry can get by in the kitchen, he can follow a recipe – but the more detailed, the better. He’s never had the same innate understanding of food and how ingredients work together that his mom used to, and that’s not something that can be taught. 

Thank god he’s never been expected to take charge of recipes in the kitchen at work. 

Harry’s made up his mind, he knows he’s going to text Louis, but he dawdles after finishing his dinner, rinsing the plate and then deciding to load and run the dishwasher. The counters need wiping off too, and it’s been too long since he scrubbed the sink. When he catches himself rooting through a closet to find the mop, he forces himself to stop. It’ll be better to get it over with; the anticipation of doing the thing is always worse than actually doing the thing. 

That’s what he tells himself anyway.

Harry creates a new text conversation, selecting Louis from his contacts, and hovers his thumb over the screen. Biting his lip in concentration, he painstaking types out  _ Hiii _ and pauses, going over his pros and cons list again. Before he can figure out what to type next, his thumb slips and hits send.

Oh for fuck’s fucking sake. Fuck.

Harry drops his phone and covers his face with his hands. He’s so fucking useless, he can’t believe himself, honestly, what was he even thinking. He’s just going to sit here on the floor outside of his closet and commit to a life of abstinence because he’s never going to–

His phone dings. 

Harry peeks through his fingers. The screen is dark, but the notification light is indeed flashing. He’ll have to unlock his phone to see what Louis responded. Maybe it wasn’t Louis. Maybe Liam had to work late again and he wants Harry to add it to the list of reasons he should look for another job. Maybe it’s Jade checking up to see if he texted Louis. Maybe it’s one of his sisters with a photo of a nephew or two. Maybe it’s work.

His phone dings again. Maybe it’s Louis. 

Harry picks up his phone with a slightly shaking hand and fumbles to unlock it.

_ Harold? _

_ Was hoping I’d hear from you _


	5. Chapter 5

Harry slows his step as the address numbers get closer to the one Louis had texted this morning, following up on their tentative plan to be alone together tonight. The coffee shop he’d suggested isn’t one Harry is familiar with, on the north side of campus near the departments Harry had steered clear of during his time there, engineering and computer science. As he squints at the awnings, Harry wonders what Louis is studying. He’d seemed more right brained, maybe an English major or psychology, but Harry was probably projecting that.

“Harold!”

Harry whips his head in the direction of the familiar voice, his breath catching as he spots Louis down the sidewalk. He’s leaning against the brick wall next to the door of the coffee shop, his backpack on the ground next to him. The early evening air is cool, the season still firmly spring for at least another few weeks, but Louis has rolled up the sleeves of the jean jacket he’s wearing over a black t-shirt and black skinny jeans, apparently unbothered by the breezes that are currently making Harry shiver underneath his sweater.

Well, if he’s honest, maybe it’s not just the weather that’s making him shiver.

Maybe it’s those eyes, the palest of blues and focused on Harry, the gaze somehow sharp and warm at the same time. Louis smiles knowingly, his teeth gnashing into a grin as Harry stumbles over his own feet. He tears his eyes away from Louis, knowing that’s the only way he’ll be able to put one foot in front of another without tripping, and walks the remaining yards over to where he’s waiting. When he looks up, Louis is giving him an appreciative onceover and Harry automatically looks down to see what Louis is taking in.

Harry has on tan ankle boots tucked into the legs of his own black skinny jeans, and his sweater is tan as well, slightly cropped in the front so the thin white t-shirt he’s wearing beneath it peeks out. He has a black messenger bag containing his laptop slung over his shoulder. When he left his apartment, he’d thought he looked put together enough for a coffee date – since apparently he’s conceded that this is, in fact, a date – but now he sees that the rip over his knee is more slovenly than fashionable and there’s a coffee stain on his t-shirt. Jesus. Harry bites his lip and scuffs his toe against the sidewalk, hesitant to look up. He’d tried his hardest getting ready, but his hardest still wasn’t good enough.

“You cut your hair.”

The low murmur finally convinces Harry to look up, noticing Louis’ hand twitch as if to reach for Harry’s freshly trimmed locks, but stilling after a moment. He drags his eyes up to meet Louis’ light ones, self consciously running his fingers through the front of his hair and hoping it looks alright. He shrugs and musters up a small smile.

“Yeah,” he mutters, clearing his throat and forcing himself to speak up. “Yeah, my friends own a salon and one of them kind of kidnapped me for a trim yesterday. I’d been putting it off, so…”

“It looks great,” Louis says simply, tugging at the black headband holding his hair off his face. “I know I need a cut, but I’m nervous it won’t look right, you know? I always seem to get someone who doesn’t listen, and then where does that leave me?”

“It’s just hair, Lou,” Harry says, nervously tugging his lower lip between his thumb and index finger once he registers the nickname that had slipped out so casually. “You know what they say, it’ll grow back.”

Louis hums and smiles enigmatically before leaning down to grab his backpack. He shuffles to the side and opens the door, gesturing for Harry to go through first so he smiles and ducks through the doorway.

The coffee shop Louis has chosen is small, a narrow room with tables for two lining the wall opposite the counter and coffee bar. As Harry looks around the small space, he realizes small isn’t quite the right word – it’s intimate. A gentle, but firm, cool hand on the small of his back guides him to the register where a bored-looking girl with dyed black hair and a lip ring raises her eyebrows at them.

“What can I get you?” she asks, finger hovered over her tablet screen. Her equally unimpressed coworker glances over from where he’s leaning against the back of their pastry case. He yawns.

“I’ll have a black tea,” Louis says smoothly, showing no sign of the annoyance with the employees that Harry feels. “Harold? Coffee?”

“Decaf, please,” he nods. “No room for cream.”

The girl nods, tapping at her screen before swiveling it so they can see the total. Harry reaches for his wallet, but Louis clucks his tongue.

“Now, now, Harold,” he says, shaking his head. He swipes his card through the slot and then taps at the screen when prompted. “I invited you, it’s on me. Isn’t that proper date etiquette?”

The guy behind the counter lets out a long-suffering sigh as he pours Harry’s coffee and Harry can’t help but giggle, looking to Louis out of the corner of his eye. 

“Your receipt’s been emailed to you,” the girl announces. “Here’s the coffee, Leon’ll bring the tea out in a minute.”

Harry picks up the large mug and turns to follow Louis to the last table in the back. Louis sits down in the chair facing the front of the shop and Harry settles across from him. 

“So,” Harry says as they both pull out their laptops. “This is a proper date, then?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Louis replies, opening the lid of his laptop and pressing the button to turn it on. “I take all my proper dates here, Leon’s an excellent wingman.”

They both jump as Leon appears out of nowhere and sets Louis’ tea down with more force than necessary but without spilling any. He pauses, looks between Harry and Louis, shakes his head, and stalks away.

“I can see that,” Harry says seriously, holding the act for a moment before they both laugh. Harry sits back in his chair, considering Louis. “But seriously. This, us–”

“That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Louis asks, his lights eyes sparkling. “Us?”

Harry laughs again, shaking his head. He turns his attention to his laptop, pulling up the Google Doc that his friend Mitch has shared with him to edit. Louis is incorrigible, just a natural flirt. They’ll have coffee, or tea in his case, and work independently together, maybe a few times, before he gets bored and moves onto someone else, someone more worthy of his flirty banter. Someone age appropriate. Someone without so much baggage.

Louis nudges Harry’s foot under the table.

“What are you working on?” he asks, pointing at Harry’s laptop.

“Oh,” Harry says, caught off guard even though it’s a perfectly reasonable question. He looks at the screen as if to remind himself. “Oh, I’m um… so I’m in this writers group and my friend Mitch asked me to look over the latest draft of this short story he’s been working on. I edit pretty much all of his work, so…”

“That’s awesome,” Louis says, looking at Harry admiringly. “You write?”

“I do, I mean, um, I did?” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, I do, I just haven’t been writing lately. They haven’t kicked me out or anything, but I’ve been doing more critiquing and editing for awhile.”

“What kind of stuff?” Louis asks, undeterred by Harry’s rambling. “You’ve got the next great American novel somewhere in there, don’t you?”

“No, definitely not,” Harry replies, shaking his head. “Mostly short stories, here and there. I never do much with the stuff I write, just… just like to keep exercising the muscle, you know? I was an English major in school, concentration in creative writing.”

“I’ve always admired people who can do that,” Louis says, taking a sip of his tea and setting the mug back down. “Like, world building, you know? Taking an empty page and filling it. And then giving feedback, that’s a whole other skillset. Harold, I’m impressed.”

Harry blushes, trying to figure out how to accept the compliment when it makes him so uneasy. He’s not impressive, he has friends who are much better writers. He just has a lot of free time. 

“What’s your friend’s story about?” Louis asks, sitting up in his chair.

“Oh, um,” Harry stumbles, grateful for the unexpected reprieve. “A breakup, pretty heavily inspired by his last one, I think. The central theme is miscommunication, or lack of communication, really? We worked on this one line that came out really well, let me see if it’s still in this draft.”

Harry uses the find and replace tool and smiles triumphantly before reading the quote aloud. 

“‘Even my phone misses your call,’” he reads, looking up to gauge Louis’ reaction. “‘By the way.’”

“Fuck,” Louis replies, sitting back. “That is good. So that’s what you’re editing tonight? While we’re alone together?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, scrolling back to the top of the document. He picks up his coffee mug. “What about you?”

“Got a paper due in a couple days,” Louis shrugs. “No biggie.”

“What, ah…” Harry scrubs a hand over his face and laughs. “What do I ask – what’s your major?”

“Hey,” Louis protests, holding up his hands. “I’m a grad student, okay? I’m getting my master’s in History, thought I’d focus on the Middle Ages this time. Paper’s on John Wycliffe.”

“This time?” Harry scrunches his nose. “What do you mean, this time?”

“Did a more general European History major in undergrad,” Louis says easily, but Harry doesn’t miss the flicker of a frown across his face, the pale skin almost instantly smoothing into a neutral expression. 

Harry wants to press him further, sure there’s something Louis isn’t telling him, but despite the proper date declaration and the intimate space, he doesn’t feel like he has the right. It’s probably nothing, anyway.

“So, let’s just pretend I don’t know who John Wycliffe is,” Harry says, lifting his mug and smiling over it before taking a sip. “Enlighten me.”

“Harold, Harold,” Louis admonishes him, a twinkle in his eye. “We’re nowhere near the Enlightenment.”

Harry grins, delighted that Louis got his truly terrible reference, and gestures for him to continue.

“So my class is about the religious and cultural consequences of the Black Death, or the Great Mortality as they called it at the time–”

Harry’s hand starts to shake, so he sets his mug down.

“Harry?” Louis asks, raising his curved eyebrows. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Harry rushes to say. He shakes his head, wondering what his face must have looked like at the mention of the Black Death to warrant the concern on Louis’ face. “Sorry, I just–”

“Fuck, no, I’m sorry,” Louis says, leaning forward and reaching out to squeeze Harry’s hand, his skin warmed from the hot tea. “I shouldn’t have just sprung that on you, considering–”

“Considering I’m an emotional basket case?” Harry says bitterly. God, this is so embarrassing. He’s such a fucking mess.

“Considering how we met,” Louis corrects him gently. “I’m really sorry, that was thoughtless of me.”

“No, no,” Harry insists, shaking his head. “It shouldn’t be a big deal, I’m just… sorry, I’m the thoughtless one, I never even asked why you started going to group. Do you, um… if you feel like talking about it, I’d like to know more about you. I’d like to know a lot more about you, actually.”

Louis sits back in his chair, relaxing his posture, but he winds his foot around Harry’s ankle beneath the table.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, blowing out a breath and smiling. “My mom died years ago, and I don’t really do a lot of stuff like the group, but I saw a flyer a few weeks ago and I still don’t really know anyone around here, so I just thought, um, you know, give it a shot.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says, carefully watching Louis’ face for signs that the conversation is bothering him more than he lets on but finding none. “I mean, for not asking sooner, but also just… I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Louis says softly, tugging at his headband again to adjust it. “It’s not as hard as it used to be, and I know that would, like, make her happy, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table as he continues, “Yeah, people used to try to reassure me, like ‘it’s okay to be okay,’ thinking I would feel guilty, right? But the bad days were so bad, that I always felt great when I was feeling okay. Like I could lift a car or something.”

“I know that feeling,” Louis smiles. “Kind of euphoric, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry looks down and starts to pick at his cuticles. “Not being okay is what makes me feel guilty, you know? I know my dad wanted me to be happy, and I’m just… not, really.”

“Like you have good days, you’re getting by,” Louis says, rubbing Harry’s ankle with his foot. “But overall, you’re not happy?”

“Yeah.” Harry exhales and looks up. Louis’ eyes don’t seem quite so icy blue as he looks at Harry, they’re warm and filled with compassion. “Um, thanks, Louis. That’s not… I don’t feel like that’s something you can say to that many people, you know?”

“You can say anything to me, Harry,” Louis says seriously. There’s still a warmth to his eyes, the blue now reminding Harry of shallow, safe ocean water right by the coast. Harry almost gets lost in them until Louis continues, “Nothing’s ever going to be too much, okay?”

And fuck if that wasn’t something Harry needed to hear. Has needed for a long time, actually.

It’s not like people haven’t tried. But something in Harry’s brain never lets him fully believe that he’s not too much, that if people really knew him, this version of him, they’d still want to stick around. So he edits, he downplays, he doesn’t let people be there for him, knowing it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy but not sure how to fix it.

Louis, though. Harry can tell he means it, really means it. Like he knows exactly what he’s promising to Harry and wouldn’t lie about something like that. 

“Okay,” Harry breathes. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Louis repeats, smiling at Harry from across the table. “Now, you don’t really want to hear about John Wycliffe, do you? He’s boring as fuck, if I’m honest.”

Harry barks a surprised laugh. “No, I guess not.”

“I’d rather hear more about you,” Louis says, looking up from under his lashes. “The feeling is mutual, I’d like to know a lot more about you, too.”

He says it so plainly, so honestly, that Harry has no choice but to believe him. He’s really doing this, he’s really on a date, a proper date, with a twenty-four-year old. Maybe Jade was right though, maybe Louis will turn out to be exactly what he needs. Just as Harry realizes he should probably say something, Louis nudges his coffee mug toward him.

“Here, clink with me,” Louis instructs, holding up his own mug of tea. 

“What are we toasting?” Harry asks, scrunching his nose in an attempt to hide just how fond he is over the cute gesture. Over the cute boy, really.

“Us,” Louis responds, meeting his eyes as he clinks his mug against Harry’s. “To us.”

A shiver runs through Harry at the intensity in Louis’ eyes and he has to clear his throat before speaking. 

“To us.”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry splashes water from the faucet in the bathroom sink over his mouth, rinsing off the last of the toothpaste foam. As he grabs a hand towel to dry off, he checks the time on his phone display. Five minutes until Louis is supposed to arrive. Five minutes to panic, check his hair, do a last sweep of the living room so Louis won’t think he’s a total slob, and then maybe panic some more. 

Not that he needs to panic. After the Black Death hiccup, as Harry has taken to calling it, during their coffee shop date, he and Louis had both abandoned their laptops altogether and talked about everything and nothing for hours as they sipped their drinks, eventually ordering refills. Louis is surprisingly easy to talk to for someone his age – christ, Harry sounds ancient – and they’d closed down the shop along with Leon and his coworker. They’d met there again the next night, much to the employees’ evident dismay, but had actually done their work alone together before parting ways. (If pressed, Harry would have to admit to the occasional exchange of lingering glances. And maybe one or two instances of footsie under the table.) And now that Louis has Harry’s number, he’s been using it, proving to be a witty conversationalist over text in a way that makes Harry feel witty too, not like he’s just trying to keep up.

So there’s nothing to panic over, Harry tells himself as he checks his hair, ruffling the front and then swooping it back to get the curls just right. It’s just Louis, he’s just coming over to watch a movie and it’s going to be fine. But, Harry reminds himself as he tweaks a curl and assesses his reflection one last time, it’s  _ Louis. _ And he’s coming over to watch a movie, so he’ll be in Harry’s apartment, his space, for hours. He’ll probably want to sit next to Harry on the couch, and Harry is used to draping himself all over whoever happens to sit next to him but, again, this is Louis. Cuddling with Louis means something different than the casual intimacy of a cuddle pile with friends he’s known for years. 

Harry gulps at his reflection. Despite the age difference he can’t help throwing in his own face, he really  _ likes _ Louis and he wants to keep him, at least for awhile. He points at his mirrored image, gives him a stern look, and says aloud, “Do not fuck this up.”

Nodding to himself, Harry strides down the hallway to the living room, passing a suspicious Evie. She’ll most likely spend the evening in one of her hiding spots, always wary of visitors, even the repeat ones. Harry wonders how many visits it will take before she warms up to Louis as he sweeps his eyes over the living room. It’s in pretty good shape from his frantic tidying up earlier after Louis had texted to suggest this plan, not that it’s ever really too messy. But Harry does have a disgusting habit of leaving used Kleenexes lying around and there’s always a coffee mug or two that needs clearing. He straightens a pile of unread books on the end table, debating whether to rearrange the stack by color instead of size, when the doorbell rings.

Harry squares his shoulders, chants  _ don’t fuck this up _ on a loop in his head, and walks over to the door, swinging it open wide to reveal a very pale, very beautiful boy waiting on his front porch. Louis smiles when their eyes meet, the crinkles around his icy blue eyes deep, like they’ve worn a path from smiling far longer than his age speaks to, and Harry melts against the doorway.

“Hi,” Louis says, a peal of bright laughter in his voice.

“Hi,” Harry says dumbly, too taken with the way Louis’ dark lashes lay against his skin when he blinks to remember there are other words in the English language.

“Hi,” Louis repeats, his voice dropped to a murmur. He takes a step closer to Harry. “Going to invite me in, Harold?”

Harry blinks a few times and then somehow recovers the power of speech and movement, straightening up and waving his hand to usher Louis in. “Come in, come in, sorry.”

“No problem,” Louis laughs, winking at Harry as he walks past him into the front hall. “You’re not the first man to be struck dumb by my beauty.”

Harry knows he’s supposed to make a joke in return, but for the life of him he can’t think of one, sure in that moment there have been many men struck dumb by Louis’ beauty, whether he knows it or not. Although by the wink, Harry’s pretty sure Louis knows the effect he has on men. And at the moment, one in particular. 

Harry swallows, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

“Drinks!” he says loudly. Louis jumps. “Sorry, I meant – do you want something to drink? I have water, I think some Diet Coke my friend left last time, no beer but I do have some wine, do you like white? Or rosé?”

Louis presses his lips together but a fond smile takes shape on his face anyway. Harry knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s nervous. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Louis says, reaching out and tugging lightly at one of Harry’s unruly curls. “It’s just me.”

“Just you,” Harry scoffs. “Believe me, if you met you, you’d understand.”

Louis laughs, the melodic sound filling the hallway and bringing a smile to Harry’s face. 

“Or, um, you like tea, yeah?” Harry asks, twisting one of his rings around his finger to keep his hands out of his hair since Louis is still toying with an errant curl, driving Harry mad. “I have tea, some green tea and herbal–”

“Don’t hate me,” Louis says, reaching into his jeans pocket. “But I kind of brought my own?”

He brandishes a few packets of black tea and Harry might be falling a little bit in love. That’s so something he would do himself, set in his ways and accustomed to his favorites but not wanting to be a bother. 

“Definitely don’t hate you,” Harry says softly, taking the teabags from Louis and examining the label. “Yorkshire? I can… maybe I could order a box, to, like… just keep here.”

Harry looks up at Louis from under his lashes, the small gesture feeling like a huge chance, more a leap than a step. Louis’ eyes – cornflower blue today, Harry decides – light up and Harry remembers to breathe, relieved the leap appears to have landed him on steady ground.

“Don’t waste your money, Harold,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s waist with a smile. “I’ll bring a box next time.”

“Well, okay,” Harry nods, fumbling with the teabags. “Okay, good. Good. Come on, let’s go brew your tea.”

Louis follows him into the airy kitchen, not bothering to hide his curiosity as he looks around on the way. Now that he’s older, makes decent money, Harry can afford to live fairly close to downtown, in the first floor apartment of a converted townhouse. The ceilings are high, and the few rooms spacious. Harry loves it, having his own space after having to share cramped spaces with too many roommates in his twenties.

“This is a great place you’ve got here,” Louis remarks, leaning against the counter as Harry pours water into his tea kettle. “Much nicer than mine, all I could find last fall was a tiny studio on the other side of campus.”

“Oh, so that’s why you chose that coffee shop,” Harry says, setting the tea kettle on the stove and flicking on the burner. “You live over there. At first I thought maybe you were an engineering student or something.”

“Fuck no,” Louis laughs. “Do you know any engineers? My brain does  _ not _ work that way.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles down at the tea kettle as memories, nice ones for a change, flood his mind. “My dad, and one of my sisters. It’s funny, my dad was the smartest person I knew, but he couldn’t read clocks, isn’t that crazy? He always had to have a digital one, and digital watch. And he helped me slave over math homework for years in school, talking way over my head and going on about stuff I’d never need to know, driving me fucking crazy, but he had a hard time calculating tips at restaurants. Like, that’s so simple,  _ I _ can do that. But yeah, their brains just work a bit differently, huh?”

“Let me guess,” Louis says warmly, sidling up to Harry where he stands in front of the stove. “He had a system for everything, right?”

“Everything,” Harry laughs, angling his body toward Louis. “We went out to lunch a few weeks before he died, the whole family, just at this little diner. And he didn’t have much appetite, so he just ordered a bagel with cream cheese – plain bagel, plain cream cheese. And he had this method of placing the cream cheese along each half of the bagel and then spreading it… it’s hard to explain, I’d have to show you, but I had forgotten about that somehow, not living at home for so long.”

Louis opens his mouth to speak but the tea kettle whistles, startling them apart. Harry turns back to the stove, rushing to click off the burner and move the tea kettle to stop the racket. He sets it down on the other side of the stove and moves to grab a mug for Louis, but when Louis tries to step out of the way, Harry crashes into him. 

“Easy, Harold,” Louis laughs, steadying him by the hips and letting his hands linger there. “You alright?”

And Harry knows how Louis means it, he is alright, he didn’t hurt himself in their little scuffle, but something settles in his chest as he nods. In the greater sense, this is the closest he’s felt to alright in a long time. He smiles sheepishly and takes a step back, turning to the cabinet and getting a mug. He sets it on the counter and steps away with a little flourish to give Louis room to prepare his tea the way he likes it, and considers what he wants to drink. Maybe a glass of wine. Louis cocks his hip as he puts his teabag in the mug, and Harry’s eyes drift to his peachy bum.

Yes, wine. Wine is definitely in order.

Or is it? Harry has a fairly low tolerance, he usually only gets through one glass before his cheeks get pink and his voice gets louder. Maybe he can just sip. Slowly. 

But a feature-length film worth of slowly? Maybe not. 

Harry scoots around Louis and reaches for a tall glass before moving to the sink and filling it with tap water. He can always come back for a glass of wine later if he changes his mind. A small one. 

“So,” Louis says, pressing his lips together again as he looks to Harry. “Do you really want to watch  _ The Social Network? _ I love that movie, Fincher is a fucking genius, but we can always watch something else if you want. I heard they just added  _ Moonlight _ to Netflix, have you seen it?”

Harry stumbles over his own feet as he starts to lead the way to the living room and Louis reaches out to steady him again, keeping his hand on Harry’s hip as they walk down the hallway.

“Um, no, I don’t think…” Harry sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, walking around the coffee table to the couch and sitting down. He pats the other side to invite Louis over. “I kind of like watching stuff I’ve seen before, that I know I like.”

“Okay,” Louis says easily.  _ “The Social Network _ it is. Fuck Facebook, though.”

Harry forces a small laugh, half of him wanting to let it drop and start the movie and half of him wanting to explain, even though he senses that Louis doesn’t need an explanation. 

Fuck it. He doesn’t want to fuck this up, and he’d rather drive Louis away by being too honest than not honest enough.

“I actually went to see  _ Moonlight _ in the theater,” Harry says, leaning forward to set his glass on the coffee table before looking up at Louis. “After it won the Oscar.”

“Oh, that was insane, wasn’t it?” Louis remarks, twisting on the couch to face Harry. He rests his arm along the back of the couch. “A real shame for them that the win is always going to be associated with that, but it was fucking amazing live television.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbles. He clears his throat. “So, I’ve been sticking to things I know really well usually because I know how they make me feel? Sometimes when I watch something new, even if it has nothing, like, directly triggering, it brings up stuff I don’t expect.”

“How do you mean?” Louis’ raspy voice is kind, no sign of judgment or anything, and Harry clings to that as he forges on. 

“So I went to see  _ Moonlight _ by myself, right?” he says, blowing out a breath. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I kept hearing how good it was, that kind of representation is really important to support, and it stayed in theaters forever. So I went to see it. And it was like it cracked something open in me? It wasn’t that anything in the movie was like my life, but I started crying in the theater thinking about my dad.”

“Yeah?” Louis whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb Harry’s train of thought.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, suddenly exhausted. “He had a million first cousins, big family reunions growing up, although he wasn’t really in touch with many of them. But after we found out he was sick, his cousin Len, who lives like an hour away, he started calling my dad every morning just to talk, I’m not sure for how long. And like… I couldn’t stop crying in the theater thinking about how kind that was, and how much I bet it meant to my dad.”

Louis inches his hand forward to toy with the short curls at the base of Harry’s neck and he pushes back into the soothing touch.

“And I know some people, like, seek that out? They  _ want _ to feel, they want that catharsis or whatever, but it’s like I can’t have everything right at the surface all the time, you know?”

“I get that,” Louis says softly. “Hey, come here.”

Louis opens his arms and Harry shuffles into his space, letting Louis envelop him. Even though Louis seems to run cold, his skin cool to the touch, the hug warms him and he lets himself be held for a few minutes. It’s possible that Harry’s let himself get a little touch starved all the nights he’s chosen to be alone over going out or hanging out with friends. Or it’s possible that Louis feels this good just because he’s Louis. 

Harry breaks the hug first, starting to feel a little foolish even though Louis doesn’t seem to be judging him, and he sits back, looking down at his lap and running a hand through his hair. 

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Louis says, tentatively taking one of Harry’s hands in his. “I’ve been there, it’s really hard. Especially… don’t take this the wrong way, but it seems like maybe you don’t have a lot of people to talk to? Outside of group.”

“I shouldn’t say that,” Harry says, his eyes on Louis’ hands as he starts to toy with the rings on Harry’s fingers. “But I don’t talk to many of my friends about a lot of this stuff because they don’t really get it, they haven’t been there. It’s not that people don’t try, but they can’t understand, you know?”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, running a fingertip over the large silver H ring on Harry’s ring finger. “Yeah, it’s hard when you’re young. None of your friends have lost a parent?”

“Actually, my friend Nick,” Harry starts, leaning his head against the couch. “His dad died six or seven months before mine. Heart problems.”

“And you guys never…”

“Not really. I kind of get the feeling it’s more triggering for him than, like, helpful, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, looking up. Their eyes meet and Louis’ gaze blisters through Harry, the sincerity and intensity overwhelming him for a moment. He shivers, and Louis withdraws his hands. “Sorry, am I making you cold? I know my hands are always freezing, I have bad circulation.”

“Just a little.” Harry smiles, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart to show how much. “I’m gonna go grab a sweatshirt or something actually, do you want one?”

“Maybe we can share a blanket?” Louis asks hopefully, raising his eyebrows.

“I think that can be arranged.” Harry blushes as he stands up even though sharing a blanket while watching a movie is about the most innocent date activity he can think of. “I’ll be right back, the DVD’s on the player if you want to get it started.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Harry manages to walk down the hallway without glancing back over his shoulder to check, but he can feel Louis’ eyes on him so he adds a little swing to his step to get back at him for unintentionally showing off his own, ahem,  _ assets _ earlier. A plain, light pink sweatshirt is slung on Harry’s bed so he grabs that and then checks the linen closet in the hallway for the perfect blanket. He’s kind of a blanket hoe, he loves nothing more than being cozy underneath one on the couch, so it takes a minute to select one from all the options. In the end, he goes for a lightweight fleece that’s big enough to cover both of their laps, figuring sharing their body heat will help keep them warm too. Well, sharing his body heat anyway.

His jaw drops at the sight that greets him in the living room. Not the DVD menu on the TV screen. Not that dazzling smile on Louis’ face, his pale pink lips stretched wide. But the tiny black and white cat curled up on Louis’ lap, looking for all the world like she belongs there.

Harry stops in the doorway and fumbles for his phone. “Sorry, I’ve got to capture this, she never does this. Not with new people.”

Louis smiles at the camera for him, a little smug, probably because he knows he’s special for Evie to do this, and Harry snaps the photo.

“It’s so cute,” he says, looking down at his phone before walking around the coffee table to his spot. “She’s going to be mad though, we’ll have to lift her up to put the blanket over you.”

“Can you be the bad guy?” Louis pleads, looking down at Evie. “I want her to like me.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but nods. He sets the blanket and sweatshirt on his lap and reaches over for Evie, who gives him a dirty look as he gingerly lifts her up. Louis quickly spreads one side of the blanket over his lap and gestures for Harry to set Evie back down. To Harry’s immense surprise, instead of stalking off in a huff, she circles in Louis’ lap a few times and then curls right back up, practically smirking at Harry over her shoulder before nudging her head at Louis’ hand to pet her. 

“Well, I think she likes you,” he says drily, pulling on his sweatshirt. He rolls the sleeves up once so they don’t fall around his hands, and then starts arranging the blanket over his lap, too. “I don’t think she took to  _ me _ that quickly, let alone anyone else.”

“Guess I’m special,” Louis murmurs, scratching at Evie’s head and looking up at Harry from under his long, dark lashes as she starts to purr.

“Yeah,” Harry replies, picking up the remote and sitting back. He presses play. “Yeah, you are.”

Louis shifts on the couch, pressing his arm against Harry’s, and Harry shivers again but he’s not convinced it’s because of how cool Louis’ skin is. They don’t full on cuddle during the movie, Louis turns out to be a fidgeter so Harry can’t drape himself along his side without being jostled periodically. Evie gives up on him after half an hour and curls up on a cushion on the chair across from the couch, a stern but fair chaperone. 

Louis also turns out to be a talker, maybe in part because he knows Harry’s seen the movie before. He comments on everything from the “fucking sick” score to the actual court cases, which he’s read up on, but the legal jargon is over Harry’s head. They each have a favorite line of dialogue and after Louis stands to deliver his along with the character (“I’m six-foot-five, two hundred and twenty pounds, and there’s two of me”), Harry gleefully does the same when it’s his turn, screaming about leaving his Prada at the cleaners along with his fuck you flip-flops.

When he drops back onto the couch, Louis cackling and clapping his back, Harry realizes just how comfortable he is with Louis. He usually doesn’t relax around new people this quickly (like cat like owner, apparently), but there’s just something about Louis that makes Harry feel like he’s known him for much longer. He leans heavily against Louis’ side for the rest of the movie, fidgeting be damned, and peeks over when the closing score starts up. Louis is looking back at him already, his pale eyes sparkling.

Harry’s eyes drop to his lips, thin and pale pink and slightly parted, and he wonders if they’re as soft as they look. He flicks his eyes back up to Louis,’ noting the silent question in his raised brows. He stays still for once, almost like a statue, as he seemingly waits for Harry to make up his mind. Neither of them breathe for a moment. Just as Harry’s about to tip his head forward, Evie jumps up onto Louis’ lap, startling them apart.

A stern and  _ completely unfair _ chaperone. 

“I should, um…” Louis laughs softly. “I should be going, yeah? I’ve got class in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbles, biting his lip. Hard. “Yeah, okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll walk you out.”

Louis lifts Evie up and kisses her head goodbye and Harry’s never been so jealous of a cat in his entire life. They both stand and Louis lifts his arms over his head to stretch, twisting slightly at the waist. His shirt lifts up, revealing a sliver of pale skin, and Harry stares, tugging at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger.

“You torture that lip, Harold,” Louis murmurs, gently tugging Harry’s hand away and linking their hands together. “Come on, walk me out.”

Harry allows Louis to tug him through the living room into the front hall, coming to a stop in front of the door. Louis turns to face him.

“I have a study group tomorrow,” he says quietly, squeezing Harry’s hand. “So I won’t see you at the church for our group. But I’d like to see you again soon. Really soon. If that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from Louis’ lips. “Yeah, more than alright.”

“I’ll text you?”

“Please,” Harry nods, taking a step closer to Louis. “Yeah.”

Harry lifts a hand and cups Louis’ cheek, his heart thudding at the prickles of Louis’ stubble against his palm. Slowly, he moves his thumb to stroke Louis’s bottom lip.

“See, that’s nice. Tender,” Louis says lowly. “That’s how you should treat yours, instead of pinching at it all the time.”

“Is that how you would treat mine?” Mesmerized by the tiny, slightly darker pink lines running up and down Louis’ lip, Harry’s not sure where that line even came from. 

“Tenderly?” Louis asks, his raspy voice turning deep and gravelly. “Fuck right, I would.”

And with that, Harry closes the distance between them, tentatively brushing his fuller lips against Louis.’ The kiss is fleeting, almost over before it began, and  _ not enough. _ Harry stays in Louis’ space, parting his lips and capturing Louis’ again; this time, the kiss is lush and warm and heady and perfect. He kisses Louis again and again, immediately addicted to his sweet breath, his thin but somehow pillowy lips, the stubble that surrounds them. Harry wants to dip his tongue into Louis’ mouth, wants to feel Louis’ tongue dance against his own, but Louis tilts his head and tenderly kisses Harry’s lower lip, on the side, right where Harry tends to bite or pinch it. 

Harry shudders, grasping Louis’ cold hand so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if it hurt. He’s not used to this, hasn’t had this kind of tenderness in a long time, and it’s so sweet he could cry. Instead, he leans his forehead against Louis’ and catches his breath, giving Louis one last lingering kiss before pulling back.

“Text me,” Harry says softly, just for Louis, as if someone other than Evie might overhear. “Soon, really soon.”

“When I get home,” Louis promises, leaning in and kissing Harry’s nose, then smacking another kiss to the corner of his mouth as he giggles. “Night, Harold.”

“Night, Lou.”


	7. Chapter 7

The bell over the door rings and Harry looks up to see Louis hold the door open for a customer leaving the bakery before he walks inside. He stops in the doorway and scans the space, giving Harry a moment to unabashedly admire him. He looks soft today, cozy, in the gray hoodie he’d borrowed from Harry the second time he came over. The sweatshirt fits Harry perfectly, but is slightly oversized on Louis, hanging well past his waist. Harry might actually combust at the sight of the sleeves swallowing up Louis’ hands, giving him sweater – or sweatshirt, rather – paws. Harry bites his lip when Louis’ eyes finally land on him behind the counter, lifting his hand in a wave and not even caring how dorky he looks when he sees the small, private smile that Louis gives him as he walks over. 

“Hey, Lou,” Harry greets him, abandoning the tray of cookies he’d been boxing up for their group meeting. Louis borrowing Harry’s clothes might turn out to be a Problem, since he now kind of wants to skip the meeting altogether and spend the hour cuddling Louis instead. 

“Harold,” Louis nods. He opens his mouth to say something else, but just then Sarah bustles out of the backroom, carrying a stack of small, clean plates, and stops in her tracks when she spots Louis. Louis smiles and nods politely at her, saying, “Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” she says, rushing over to the counter and setting the stack down. “You must be Louis.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s me,” Louis laughs. “What gave it away?”

“You see how Harry’s looking at you?” Sarah asks, jerking her thumb at Harry beside her. “Like a particularly intense frog? That’s how he looks at his phone when he’s waiting for you text him back.”

“Hey,” Harry pouts, elbowing her in the side slightly harder than necessary. “That’s not… I don’t–”

“That’s not really fair,” Louis says, flicking his long hair out of his face. As much as Harry likes the headband – and he  _ really _ likes the headband – seeing Louis’ longish brown hair down and windswept is nice, too. Really nice. “I always text him back right away, when does he have time to make the frog face?”

He and Sarah both cackle at Harry’s expense, and Harry throws his hands up in mock exasperation. Hiding his smile, he turns back to the cookies he’s bringing to group as Louis and Sarah start to chat.

“So this is the bakery,” Louis remarks, leaning against the counter and looking around again. “It’s nice. Charming, just like its manager.”

Harry blushes down at the box of cookies like a teenager with an unrequited crush instead of an adult man who’s been on several dates with the object of his affection. They’ve met for coffee and gotten varying amounts of work done a couple more times, and had another movie night. Keeping with their David Fincher theme, Harry had chosen  _ Gone Girl, _ not for Ben Affleck’s shower scene as Louis had teased, but because even if it makes him basic, the book had knocked him on his ass. And there’s a cat.

The lemon cookies won’t finish boxing themselves, so Harry makes quick work of wrapping them up. He hadn’t bothered with anything special for group last week since Louis couldn’t make it, bringing traditional chocolate chip again, but now he’s finally going to see how Louis likes the bold flavor that Harry chose for him. Louis doesn’t seem to be a snacker and they haven’t had a meal together yet, so Harry’s going to seize the opportunity and insist he try one tonight. And these cookies won’t be thrown in the trash, Harry is sure of it. 

“You ready, Lou?” Harry asks, looking up and dusting his hands off. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Louis replies before turning back to Sarah. “It was nice to meet you! I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

“You too,” Sarah says, grinning. “Anyone who gets Harry to smile again is alright in my book.”

“Shut up,” Harry mutters, rounding the counter with the box of cookies. Louis laughs as Harry starts tugging at his sleeve and edging toward the door. “Good night, we’ll talk about your insubordination tomorrow.”

“Night!” Sarah calls after them cheerfully. 

Louis takes Harry’s hand properly once they’re outside in the cool, early evening air. As Harry has come to expect, his hand is cold but the touch somehow warms him. He squeezes Louis’ hand, smiling down at his feet. Louis talks about his latest paper on the short walk to the church, but Harry doesn’t really take it in, letting Louis’ melodic voice wash over him as he appreciates the pinks and oranges in the sun setting. He feels… content.

It feels good. 

Until his phone buzzes in his pocket just as they reach the sidewalk in front of the church. Harry pulls it out and checks the display, seeing his mom’s picture. He grimaces in apology at Louis and mouths that he has to take it. 

“Hi, Mom,” Harry says, holding the phone up to his ear after accepting the call. Louis hangs back, waiting for him but still within earshot. “How are you?”

“Hi, honey.” 

Her voice shakes and Harry stiffens. So it’s one of those calls. 

“I was looking at my calendar and I think I have an appointment tomorrow?”

“No, Mom,” Harry says patiently. “The appointment is on Friday. Today’s Wednesday.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, the relief evident in her voice. “I thought – well, I don’t know what I was thinking. Are you taking me, then?”

“No, I can’t go this time,” Harry explains. “Kathleen is going to take you, is that written on the calendar?”

“Oh, yes, I see it now,” she replies. “Sorry, I’m so stupid, I just saw–”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, shaking his head even though his mom can’t see him. “You’re not stupid.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, sounding distracted. “So Kathleen is taking me tomorrow?”

Harry’s heart sinks and he closes his eyes for a second, but he doesn’t miss a beat, saying again, “No, Mom, it’s on Friday, the day after tomorrow. She’ll call when she’s on her way to get you, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” she says, sounding more confident this time. “Friday. I’ve got it now. Thanks, honey. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Harry says, avoiding Louis’ curious gaze. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

Harry ends the calls and pockets his phone, finally looking to Louis. 

“My mom, she…” He shrugs. “She has some short-term memory issues.”

“Oh,” Louis says, understanding dawning on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry lies, nodding toward the church entrance. “Let’s go in, okay?”

Louis lets him off the hook, nodding and following Harry inside. They walk in silence down the stairs and the hallway to their meeting room, and Louis hovers behind Harry as he sets the cookies out on the table. It would be annoying with anyone else, the constant feel of their looming presence as Harry arranges the lemon cookies and moves onto the coffee station, fixing a cup for Mary, an elderly widow who’s not good on her feet. But with Louis, Harry feels settled. Comforted. Like he’s not alone. He smiles when Louis takes the cup and delivers it to Mary for him, and Harry can feel him hovering again as he finishes pouring his own cup. Louis follows him to the circle of chairs and sits next to Harry, tugging at the base of Harry’s seat until he scooches a few inches closer. Satisfied, Louis takes Harry’s hand in his and strokes his thumb over Harry’s knuckles.

“Welcome, everyone,” Paul says loudly from across the circle, by way of calling the meeting to order. “Well, how are we doing? What kind of week was it?”

Harry sips his atrocious cup of coffee and sits back, enjoying the feel of Louis’ cool skin on his knuckles. His week was pretty good actually, thanks to the pale boy next to him, so he’s not sure he’ll have anything to contribute this week, a rarity for him.

Harry half listens as James starts talking about the upcoming birthday of his friend who’d died the year before. Birthdays are really fucking hard and he would feel guilty for not paying closer attention, but James uses humor as a defense mechanism and Harry doesn’t really have the energy tonight for the way Paul has to prod him to drop his walls down. It’s exhausting. So he tunes out and loses himself in the soothing touch on his hand.

“What do you think, Harry?”

Paul’s kind voice snaps Harry back to attention. He glances over at Louis, who’s biting back a smile at Harry getting called on by the teacher.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says honestly. “I drifted off there for a minute.”

“Meredith, here,” Paul says, gesturing to a woman a few seats down from Harry, “was expressing some frustration about her sister. She feels like her sister tries to fix her problems instead of just hearing her out. Do you have anyone in your life who makes you feel the same way?”

“Actually, yeah.” Harry blows out a breath. “I have this one friend who I used to be closer to, we used to talk all the time before she had to move for work. But yeah, I swear at one point I wish I’d had the presence of mind, or the words or whatever, to say to her, ‘You can’t problem solve grief.’”

“That’s well put, Harry,” Paul says thoughtfully. “You can’t problem solve grief, very true. But you didn’t get the chance to say that?”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “No, it came to me so much later, you know? When I was a little less crazed. But we did have a conversation once where she was giving me advice about, like, telling people what I needed – you know, going to them and being proactive, so that I could get the support I needed.”

“And? What did you say?”

“I said how can I go to people and tell them what I need when  _ I _ don’t know what I need?” 

Memories flood Harry’s brain but Louis’ hand squeezing his brings him back to the present.

“I think you handled that really well,” Paul remarks, looking around the room. “Who else has felt that way? Cindy?”

Harry slumps in his chair, forcing himself to pay attention for the rest of group in case Paul asks him another question. It’s a typical meeting, more talk about listening versus problem solving and a woman who Harry hasn’t met yet vents about all the red tape involved with her mother’s death and the estate. Harry’s lucky, there was no estate to speak of when his dad died and he’s not sure his dad even had an updated will. If he had, Harry’s middle sister Elizabeth would have been the executor and the responsibilities this woman is talking about would have fallen to her, not him. 

“Okay, guys,” Paul says, clapping his hands together after their hour is up. “Good meeting. We still have some time before we have to clear out, so I’ll see you all at the snack table.”

Harry pops out of his chair, folding it up, and turns to Louis, grinning madly at him.

“What?” Louis laughs.

“I want to see if you like these cookies,” Harry says, standing and tugging Louis up out of his chair. “Come on, they’re lemon flavored, three types of real lemon–”

“Harry!”

James’ booming voice is accompanied by his hand clapping on Harry’s back. When he turns to face James, Louis slips away toward the snack table and Harry looks longingly after him. 

“You can’t problem solve grief,” James declares, as though it’s new wisdom he’s bestowing onto Harry instead of Harry’s own words. “Brilliant, man, that’s just brilliant.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies, edging away from him to put his chair with the others. “Glad you think so, I’m just gonna–”

“You could sell that,” James says, following Harry as he stacks his chair at the side of the room.

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered. He forgets about following Louis and the cookies altogether, completely distracted. “Sell what?”

“That could be a slogan!” James informs him. “Think of that on mugs! T-shirts even!”

“Oh.” Harry shakes his head. “Oh no, I don’t think–”

“James,” Paul says, coming up and putting his arm around James’ shoulders. “Have you had a cookie yet? You must try one.”

He winks at Harry and drags James away. Thank god. Harry turns toward the snack table but Louis is already approaching him, clutching a rumpled napkin in one hand while wiping his mouth with the back of the other.

“Harry, those cookies are sick,” he says. “You should make those next week, too.”

Something about the act doesn’t convince Harry, makes him think it is an act. “Sick” isn’t exactly a descriptive compliment. And the part of the napkin he can see in Louis’ hand looks completely clean, no crumbs or anything. No crumbs anywhere, no bits of the candied pieces that top each cookie in Louis’ scruff or on his hand or on his – Harry’s – sweatshirt. 

It’s the sight of Harry’s sweatshirt that calms him down. Louis looks fucking adorable swimming in it, and Harry suddenly remembers the overwhelming urge to cuddle him from earlier. He’s just paranoid, or desperate to impress Louis more likely.

“Yay,” he says, reaching out and capturing Louis’ smaller hand in his. “I’m glad you like them! This opens up a whole world of dessert options, you’ll see, dating a baker has its advantages.”

Louis presses his lips together and swings their hands together, looking for all the world like he has a secret.

“What?” Harry asks, already smiling at whatever the answer will be.

“Dating a baker,” Louis repeats, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins. “I like that, I like how it sounds. I’m dating a baker.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry murmurs, taking a step closer to Louis. “You are.”

He leans in to give Louis a chaste kiss, possibly with the intention of tasting the lemon flavor on his pink lips, but Louis pulls away, laughing.

“Harold! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

And with that, he pulls Harry out of the meeting room, calling out a goodbye to Paul. Once they make it outside, Louis turns to him, his pale skin warmed by the last bit of sun in the sky and his light eyes twinkling.

“Can I walk you home?”

“Now, Louis,” Harry says, biting back a smile. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“My kind,” Louis replies, grabbing Harry’s hand and setting off down the sidewalk. “Sweet, caring, gorgeous, terrible sense of humor–”

“Hey.” Harry’s whine turns into a laugh, delighted at the grin on Louis’ face. They fall into step, walking in comfortable silence for half a block before Louis glances over.

“What?”

“You can’t problem solve grief,” Louis quotes. He squeezes Harry’s hand. “Who was that about?”

“Oh, my friend Clare,” Harry answers, shaking his head at the notion he said something particularly astute. “It’s weird, she’s like a task-oriented person, right? That was kind of her thing, she was always busy so she would want to know, like, something specific she could do. But she wasn’t, like, always great at follow through.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, this one time,” Harry starts, choosing his words carefully. He hasn’t really told anyone this, and he wants to say it right. “So a couple of months after my dad died, she checked in on me and wanted to know how I was doing, which was really nice.”

Louis nods for Harry to continue.

“And we were talking, and she asked if I’d thought about seeing a therapist. She knew a couple of other people who’d lost parents and they said it was the thing that got them through. And I hadn’t really thought about it, no one had suggested it before, which… I don’t know. Does that seem crazy, or like…” Harry sighs, pushing himself to be honest. Louis told him it would never be too much, and Harry trusts that he meant it. “Or does that mean, like, I shouldn’t need it? You know?”

“Oh, baby,” Louis whispers, tugging Harry to stop and face him. “No, not at all, it just… it’s just that no one thought of it, like you said, you don’t have a lot of friends who’ve gone through this.”

Harry tucks the term of endearment, the first that Louis’ uttered, away in his heart for safekeeping and blinks back the tears that have sprung to his eyes. He nods, and pulls at Louis’ hand to walk with him. This conversation might be easier to have if they’re not face to face.

“Logically, I know you’re right,” Harry says, running his free hand through his hair. “But neither of my sisters have mentioned going to see someone and we’re all in the same boat, right? Why should I need it when they don’t? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Louis declares. “Not a thing.”

Harry nods. On some level he does believe Louis. He just wishes all of him could believe Louis.

“So, um, anyway,” Harry continues. “Clare offered to do the legwork of finding names of people I could go see, since that process is kind of a lot. But then, um… she never did. So.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes. “That doesn’t mean–”

“I know,” Harry interrupts, coming to a stop at the crosswalk and waiting for the light to change. “I know. But it’s just hard not to take things, like, the worst possible way, you know? Like, she didn’t care enough or something.”

“Did you ever say anything to her?”

“No,” Harry answers, crossing the street and turning the corner. They’re almost home. “No, I just… It was already such a hard time, it was right around Christmas and it was so depressing. I didn’t want to hear that she forgot, and I’m weird about asking for help, and I just, I don’t know. The idea that we weren’t good enough friends for her to come through was, like, embarrassing somehow, like I’m this try hard who she didn’t like as much as I liked her. Which has a lot more to do with me and my issues than her, but… yeah.”

“Did you ever go see someone?” Louis asks, slowing his pace as they approach Harry’s apartment.

“I tried once, like… four months after that? That’s how long it took to recover, I guess, and do it on my own. But the therapist I found told me that he took my insurance and then emailed me after the initial appointment to say he was mistaken and had to bill me in full.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Louis looks outraged, and Harry’s heart soars. It’s just nice to have that kind of validation. “How much was it?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Harry sighs. He rubs his tired eyes. “I couldn’t believe it, I was so fucking angry about the whole thing. I know that insurance stuff is really fucked up in this country, but it was just like how can someone in that industry be so careless? I felt so burned by the whole experience, I just stopped trying. I’ve never gone to anyone else.”

“Do you think that maybe…” Louis hesitates as they reach the stoop. He sits on the steps and pats the area next to him for Harry to join. “Do you think maybe it’s a good idea to try again? I don’t mean to imply that, like, I don’t want to hear about this stuff, because I do, I really do, but maybe a professional could help you sort through everything? Like… maybe that would help with stuff with your mom?”

Harry sits heavily on the step next to Louis. He’s been waiting for Louis to bring that up.

“Yeah, probably,” Harry admits, looking down at his hands in his lap. “I hate talking about my mom because no one gets it, and like… I just feel like she’d be embarrassed, like I’m airing dirty laundry or something? I know I probably should talk about it, but it’s just… it’s hard to  _ start, _ you know?”

“Definitely,” Louis assures him, scooting closer to Harry on the step. He lifts his hand and lightly tugs at the curls at the base of Harry’s neck. “Listen, I don’t want to be pushy, but I can help you sort through the logistics of finding a therapist, one who takes your insurance and fits your schedule and everything, any time, okay? Standing offer. But for tonight, maybe just… tell me a little about your mom?”

Harry rolls his shoulders, trying to relax the tension that’s gathered there. A few years ago, during a particularly stressful six months at work, he’d developed tendonitis in both shoulders. Not from anything physical, it had to have been the stress. Every once in awhile he feels the pain of it almost hovering right above the muscles. 

A ghost pain.

“Yeah,” Harry’s voice cracks and the tears that have been threatening to spill all night finally do. “Yeah, okay, um…”

“She has short-term memory issues?” Louis asks gently, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on Harry’s back. “When did that start?”

“Well, she’s always done stuff like, she’ll tell one of us something three times and think she’s told each of us once,” Harry says, a laugh escaping at the memory of when that used to be a funny quirk. “And she was a little more scattered the past few years, but nothing, like, terrible, right? I think maybe my dad had been compensating for her for awhile, and we didn’t know.”

Louis hums, and nods for Harry to continue.

“And then after he died,” Harry says, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. “We were all so, like, caught up in just getting by, you know? We didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. But a few months later, she had trouble with her pills, not getting prescriptions filled and stuff, and ended up in the hospital overnight and it was like this wake-up call, that she needed help she hadn’t asked for.”

Harry glances at Louis and shrugs, knowing that they’re both thinking the same thing: Like mother, like son.

“She has some aphasia,” Harry says, leaning back into Louis’ touch, craving more comfort. “So she can’t think of the right word sometimes. And she’ll ask the same questions over and over, or we’ll have the same conversation like three times in one day. Sometimes she catches herself and says ‘have I already asked that’ or something and it just feels awful, because I don’t want her to think I really mind. Yeah, it fucking sucks, but I just… I couldn’t stand it if she thought she was a burden.”

“I know what you mean,” Louis says softly. “Taking care of my mom when she was sick, I always did everything I could to show her it was never a burden. It was like… this sounds weird, but it was an honor.”

“That doesn’t sound weird at all,” Harry replies, meeting Louis’ sky blue eyes. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m sorry, I should ask more–”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts, smiling sadly. “You’re fine. I have more distance from it than you, I’ve been healing for longer, I don’t need to talk about everything as much.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, turning to face him. “You must have been so young, that has to leave scars–”

“Yeah, I have some scars,” Louis says simply. “Ones people can’t see. But I promise you, I don’t feel like you’re not asking enough. Just ask when something comes up naturally, and I promise I can bring stuff up when I want. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

He has to trust that Louis means it. A yawn escapes Harry and he stretches his arms over his head. “I should, um… I think I should call it a night, I’m beat.”

“Okay,” Louis smiles, poking at Harry’s cheek where his dimple would appear if he was smiling until he actually does. “Aha, there it is!”

Harry shakes his head, but keeps smiling. He brings a hand up and cups Louis’ cheek before leaning in and kissing him softly. This is as far as they’ve gotten, Louis seemingly comfortable to let Harry take lead and Harry moving at a glacial pace. It’s been a long time is all, and Louis is… well, Louis is important. Harry doesn’t want to fuck it up by moving too fast. 

The kiss comes to a natural end and Harry pulls back, admiring Louis’ eyes. Not sky blue, that’s too bright or warm or something. Maybe arctic blue. Appropriate for Harry’s glacial pace. He snorts at himself and Louis cocks his head.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Harry says, standing up. “Text me when you get home?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis replies, dusting off his jeans. Harry leers exaggeratedly at his ample bum and Louis wags a finger at him. “None of that, Harold! You’ll give me impure thoughts or something.”

“That’s only fair,” Harry says, walking backwards up the last step and toward his door, miraculously not tripping. “You always give me impure thoughts.”

“I hope one day you’ll share those with me,” Louis says, almost shyly. It’s adorable.

“One day,” Harry promises. “I will.” 

He watches as Louis walks backwards down the path, both of them smiling goofily at each other.

As he reaches the sidewalk, Louis calls out, “And I meant it, baby, just say the word and I’ll help if you ever want to talk to someone. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry calls back, leaning against the door, not quite ready to let Louis out of his sight yet. As he watches Louis walk down the sidewalk back toward campus, something settles in his chest. Follow through, doing what you say you will,  _ showing up, _ is important to him. Always has been. 

And something tells him that it’s important to Louis too. 


	8. Chapter 8

Harry pauses inside the doorway, taking in the familiar faux Italian decor as he looks for his date. There’s a cough behind him, so he steps to the side and lingers at the edge of the crowd of people in the front of the restaurant waiting for tables. It reminds him of waiting to board a plane at the airport, the dueling senses of desperation and competition in the air. He can’t really blame any of the people jostling for space closer to the hostess stand, he hasn’t had Olive Garden breadsticks in a long time and he can smell them in the air. It could make anyone a little crazy.

“Jade, party of two?”

The bored announcement carries through the room, drawing Harry’s attention up front. He finally spots his petite friend next to the hostess and starts making his way toward her, muttering apologies as he wades through the throng of disgruntled would-be diners. When he reaches them, he doesn’t even have time to hug Jade before the hostess turns and starts leading them to a table. They hustle to follow her, eyes on the prize (breadsticks), and take their seats at a table for two in the back. It’s surrounded by empty tables, so Harry’s not sure why there’s a rabid overflow of people in the lobby, but that’s not his problem. He’s too nervous about this dinner to give the people waiting much more thought. 

“Harry,” Jade squeals, taking his hands in hers from across the table and giving them a squeeze before releasing them. “I’m so glad you wanted to do this, babes! We haven’t been here in forever.”

Harry nods and forces a smile, one he’s sure doesn’t reach his eyes. His face just feels stiff. Jade’s eyes narrow but before she has a chance to interrogate him, their waiter arrives, swiftly filling their water glasses and reciting drink options. They both order white wine and Jade doesn’t let the poor man leave until he understands how exactly how eager they are for their complimentary breadsticks. Once he escapes, Harry starts to study his menu even though they always order the same thing. He can feel Jade’s eyes studying him, so he sets it down and sits back in his chair, meeting her gaze.

“So,” she says with an arched brow. “What’s up?”

“What?” Harry bluffs. “Who said anything was up?”

“You’ve been more MIA than usual the past couple of weeks,” Jade says, sitting back and tapping her chin with her forefinger. “I seem to remember hearing something about a Louis? I assume that’s because of him, and you invited me to our favorite chain restaurant to finally spill some tea. Come on, Harry, dish! Tell me everything.”

That’s only part of the reason he’s invoked one of their years-old traditions, but the thought of Louis brings a smile entirely unbidden to his face and Jade squeals, pointing at him.

“I knew it!” She wriggles excitedly in her seat.

“So, I took your advice,” Harry starts, glancing down at his hands on the table. Jade’s enthusiasm is nice but overwhelming. “And I texted him.”

_ “And?” _ Jade demands, gesturing for more with her hand. “Oh my god, this is torture, Harry.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry laughs. He runs a hand through his hair and looks up to see Jade practically ready to burst. “Okay! We’ve been… seeing each other.”

“Yes!” Jade exclaims, nearly bursting into applause from the looks of it. She resorts to sitting on her hands to stop herself, leaning in and lowering her voice as she continues,  _ “Harry! _ I’m so happy for you, this is awesome.”

Harry blushes, looking around to see if the tables slowly filling nearby are gawking at the display, but everyone seems unconcerned with them, focused on their own breadsticks and tea spilling.

“Yeah, it’s… awesome,” Harry confesses with a grin. “I, um… I really like him, I think he’s…”

Before Harry can elaborate, their waiter delivers their glasses of wine and sets the bowl of breadsticks in front of Jade. Smart man.

“Want to split the usual?” Jade asks, lifting her brows at Harry. He nods. “Can we have an order of fettuccine alfredo? With chicken, and we’d like the salad, thank you.”

The waiter furiously scribbles down their order and collects their menus, leaving them to gossip over their breadsticks. Jade closes her eyes and moans exaggeratedly after taking her first bite and Harry laughs, but he’s no better. The bread is fluffy and warm and probably laced with crack, it’s so addictive. 

“So,” Jade says around a mouthful of breadstick. “He’s… what? Tell me, Harry, I’m dying here!”

Harry swallows his bite and takes a sip of wine as he tries to shake off the ‘dying’ comment.

“He’s, um…” Harry racks his brain, trying to think how describe Louis in a way that could do him justice. “Oh, wait, let me show you a photo first, yeah?”

This time Jade actually does clap her hands together as Harry pulls out his phone and finds the photo he’d taken of Louis and Evie. He holds the phone out to show her, and Jade gasps, taking it from him and pinching at the screen to zoom in.

“That little bitch!” she says, looking up at Harry. “She curled up on his lap? It took, like, a year for her to be in the same room as me!”

“I know,” Harry laughs, pleased at how her outrage validates his own reaction. “I think she took to him sooner than she took to  _ me.” _

“Harry,” Jade says slowly, looking back at the photo. “He’s  _ gorgeous, _ well fucking done.”

“Thanks.” Harry blushes again as Jade hands his phone back. “Yeah, it’s even worse in person, like up close? His face is perfect, it’s awful, he’s got these high cheekbones and the perfect amount of scruff and the cutest little nose and his eyes… they’re like the palest shade of blue you’ve ever seen, I can never come up with the word for it, and believe me, I’ve been trying. And his hair is too long, so he keeps it off his face with a headband like that most of the time, which I did  _ not _ know was a thing for me–”

Their waiter interrupts again, this time setting down the bowl of salad along with their salad plates. Jade thanks him, but her tone makes it clear that they want to be left alone, and Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“Oh, sue me,” she says, adding servings of salad to both of their plates. “I want to hear about your  _ boyfriend, _ you  _ like _ him, you want to–”

“Jade,” Harry whines, interrupting her sing-song teasing. “Sto-op. Or I won’t tell you anymore.”

Jade shuts up immediately, taking a bite of her salad and looking at Harry expectantly.

“I think he’s different,” Harry says quietly, picking up his fork and looking down at his plate. “I think he’s special. I know it’s soon, but I just, like… have a feeling about him?”

“Yeah?” Jade asks cautiously. “What’s he like? Does the age thing still bother you?”

“Not really,” Harry says honestly, pushing salad around his plate as he thinks about it. “He doesn’t really seem that young? He’s an old soul or something. Oh, I learned why he goes to group, his mom passed away when he was young. Maybe that made him, like, grow up faster or something.”

“I imagine it would,” Jade says, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Sometimes that kind of statement prickles under Harry’s skin, gets his back up, but the empathy in Jade’s voice rings loud and clear.

“I know,” he says, taking a bite of salad finally. The dressing here is almost as addictive as the breadsticks, so he wolfs down another couple of bites before continuing. “He’s a grad student, European History, but he lives on the north side of campus. He’s… he’s really funny, he’s, like, quick? Sharp witted. He’s smart, he knows a little bit about everything, one of those types. He drinks tea, but just one kind of black tea, and like all the time, all day. It’s really cute.”

Jade kicks his foot gently under the table. “You  _ like _ him, you want–”

The sing-song is much quieter this time, but Harry kicks her back and she stops, grinning.

“You do, though,” she says matter-of-factly, picking up her wine glass. “You like him so much, I can tell. I haven’t seen you like this in a long, long time.”

“I do,” Harry admits, blushing down at his plate. “He, um… he’s just a good person, he’s really kind, and he understands a lot of things.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jade asks, taking a sip of wine. “Like what?”

Just as they’ve reached the part of the conversation that Harry’s been dreading but knows he needs to have, the waiter arrives with their meal and more plates. Their table for two is getting crowded, but the waiter picks up on their energy and doesn’t hover to clear anything or ask questions.

“Like what, babe?” Jade asks softly, ignoring the food.

“Like…” Harry blows out a breath, trying to keep his composure. “I’m not really–”

Tears flood Harry’s eyes and start to spill over as he valiantly tries to ignore them, needing to just get this out.

“I’m not doing very well. I haven’t been for a long time, and it’s so hard to talk about and I keep shutting down. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I feel like I’ve passed some kind of time limit for being like this, you know? Kathleen and Elizabeth seem to be, like, fine and I’m just…  _ not.” _

Jade reaches in her purse and fishes out a packet of Kleenex, which she hands over, nodding for him to continue. Harry struggles to get one out and then wipes at his cheeks, feeling like an idiot for letting their food go cold.

“And I know we’re not all super close, and maybe they’re not doing that great either and just not talking about it, but I just feel like the only one, you know?”

“I know,” Jade says gently. “But Harry, you’re just not doing yourself any favors comparing yourself to your sisters.”

“I know,” Harry sighs. “I know! But it’s been like this my whole life, I’ve always compared myself to them and so has everyone else – my parents, our family’s friends, teachers. Being the youngest, it’s just always been like this. It’s like this built-in yardstick for comparison to see how I measure up.”

Jade pushes his glass of water toward him and Harry takes a sip. He’s still crying, and it’s starting to feel like he won’t be able to stop.

“And I don’t like to talk about it,” Harry says shakily, “but my mom isn’t doing any better, it’s just slowly getting worse.”

“Her memory?”

“Yeah. And it’s so hard trying to work with Kathleen and Elizabeth to care for her, you know what they’re like.”

“I do,” Jade says drily. “Let me guess, Kathleen is micromanaging everything and Elizabeth is totally checked out?”

“Yeah, it’s always the two extremes,” Harry sighs, halfheartedly trying to dry his cheeks with his now damp tissue. “I’m always caught in the middle. And it’s like everything we say to each other has thirty plus years of subtext and baggage, you know? I never know what’s okay to say. You remember like a year ago, when we were first realizing what kind of help my mom needed, and I was texting them about communicating better about stuff like errands and appointments and Kathleen was like maybe we need a social worker to mediate?”

“Oh my god,” Jade says, covering her face with her hand for a moment. “I do remember that. Because you were being  _ so _ unreasonable, asking them to let you know if they helped grocery shop that week.”

“Exactly,” Harry replies.  _ “Exactly. _ And I know Kathleen feels guilty that she wasn’t here when my dad was sick–”

“Oh, that’s right,” Jade says. “I forgot, they moved back right after, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, like a month later,” Harry confirms, sniffling. “I think she’s, like, trying so hard to fix everything for my mom because she couldn’t do anything for my dad. But there was never anything any of us could have done to fix it for him, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jade says sadly, reaching over and squeezing Harry’s hand. He knows they’re both remembering the day Harry got the news and canceled plans with her that night to go see his dad in the hospital. They hadn’t even needed to say the words aloud; they’d both known what the diagnosis meant. 

“So I feel for her, I really do,” Harry continues, awkwardly blowing his nose with one hand. “But I don’t actually have that much empathy when it makes my life so much harder. I have no idea what’s going to blow up in my face like that, so I just say as little as possible when we’re talking about logistics or making decisions because I just can’t deal with that again. It was like the nuclear option or something. Although, hopefully we won’t have as much to organize, we finally got her home health aide sorted out.”

“What was there to sort out?” Jade asks, tilting her head. “Fuck, I’m sorry, the last thing I remember is you guys interviewing a couple of different agencies. I should have asked.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.” Harry shrugs. He does wish she had asked, wishes more people would  _ ask, _ but he probably would have downplayed the situation and his stress over it. “So Kathleen wanted to be the point person for the agency we chose, fine. She and my mom met with the first person they found and everyone agreed to try her out.”

Harry pauses, taking another sip of water, and Jade just waits patiently. 

“My mom  _ hated _ her, it got to the point where she’d go hide upstairs to hide or try to figure out reasons for her not to come over. And I could have told everyone that’s what was going to happen on day one, just based on what I heard about that first meeting, but I can only do so much. I can’t handle Kathleen being mad at me, so I just let it play out. And I’m the one my mom will tell stuff like she hates this woman and hides from her. She just tells Elizabeth what she thinks she wants to hear since she helps pay for things, and she’s really defensive with Kathleen.”

“Well, it’d be hard not to be,” Jade mutters, pulling a face. She waits for Harry to crack a smile, and then says, “Babes, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize things were this bad. It kind of sounds like, um… like you didn’t just lose your dad, you sort of lost your mom too, huh?”

“In a way?” Harry chokes out through a new wave of years. “And I’m just… I’m not happy and I don’t think I have been for a long time. Like a year? Sometimes I feel like grieving has become my whole personality, but I don’t know if it’s just grieving anymore. And Louis and I were talking and he offered to help me find a therapist, and I feel… like, on the one hand, I think it’s time. It’s probably past time. But I just… you know the kinds of things we say to ourselves that we would never say to anyone else? It’s that voice on a loop in my head, I just feel like a failure, I should be able to manage my dumb little life on my own.”

Jade blanches at that and Harry feels incrementally better. As much as he’s tried to tell himself that’s ridiculous, it’s validating to see on a friend’s face that she thinks so, too.

“So I’ve done some looking,” Harry continues before pausing to get another tissue out. “And I started emailing therapists about scheduling something.”

“Harry,” Jade breathes, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand again. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies, turning his hand to hold hers. “I was proud of me, too. I keep striking out, though, I’ve tried five people and the ones who bothered to get back to me aren’t taking on clients with the timing I need.”

“Oh, that must be so frustrating,” Jade says, rubbing her thumb over the back of Harry’s hand in hers. “Taking that first step is so hard, and then for the process to be hard, too?”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Harry says. “Louis helped me come up with, like, a template kind of? So I can just copy and paste into a new email every time I go down the list.”

“He does sound smart,” Jade smiles. “And kind. Is he making it easier?”

“Yeah, he is,” Harry says softly, his tears slowing. He lets go of Jade’s hand and picks up his tissue to dry his eyes and face before blowing his nose again. “I just, um… I have a hard time talking about this stuff. I don’t mean to shut you out, it’s just… really fucking hard. But I wanted you to know how I’m really doing and what’s going on with me.”

“Thank you so much, babe,” Jade says seriously, “for opening up with me. I love you so much.”

“You’re my best friend,” Harry says before gesturing to the untouched food between them. “I’m sorry I chose the worst possible moment to start this conversation, I didn’t know I was going to cry at the Olive Garden.”

Jade bursts out laughing and Harry joins in, cracking up. He’s finally stopped crying, and he should probably go splash some water on his face, but he stays right where he is, watching his best friend start to serve their lukewarm food.

“Oh my god, I need that on a t-shirt,” she says, handing Harry his plate. “I didn’t know I was going to cry at the Olive Garden.”

Their waiter drops off a fresh basket of breadsticks just as they both start eating and can’t properly thank him, but Harry manages to return his warm smile before he walks away. 

“Harry,” Jade says a few minutes later after they’ve demolished their shared meal, “Is there anything I can do to make things easier? I could try checking in on you more, then you wouldn’t have to start a conversation?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, stifling the urge to say no. He needs help and it’s being offered. “Yeah, I think that could be good.”

“Okay,” Jade says seriously. “I want you to know, just because you’re just going through a hard time and you need some help, that doesn’t mean you’re a failure. Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry replies even though there’s a definite part of him that doesn’t believe her. “Okay, yeah.”

“Okay,” she nods, leaning her elbows on the table. “Now I have one more question for you.”

“What?”

“Can you  _ please _ bring Louis to the salon for a haircut?”

Harry giggles into his wine glass before composing himself enough to drain the rest of his Pinot Grigio.

“But Jade,” he whines, “I like the headband, weren’t you listening?”

“I was listening!” Jade retorts, placing her hand on her chest. “But I am a professional, I took an  _ oath–” _

“There’s no oath.”

“–a solemn vow, Harry,” Jade continues seamlessly. “And I can’t break it just because you like him in headbands, I need to help him. If his current haircut has a good shape to it, I swear to god I’ll bring you here for dinner every day next week. But it doesn’t, does it?”

“He could use a trim,” Harry sniffs. “Maybe a little shape.”

“See,” Jade says, looking entirely too satisfied with herself. “Don’t worry, it’ll grow back. Please bring him in? I want to meet him.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry concedes, holding his hands up in defeat. “I’ll ask him, okay?”

“Thank you,” Jade says, looking around and then flagging their waiter down when she spots him. “I’ve got this, my mom sent me a gift card and I’ve been saving it for one of our dinners.”

“Thanks, babe,” Harry says, smiling when she glares at him. “But seriously. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jade replies before rummaging through her purse for her wallet. She winks at him. “I love you.”

“Love you, too. Babes.”

* 

It takes a week to convince Louis to let Jade cut his hair. 

At first, Harry was barely half sold on the idea, but the more he thought about it – and the more Louis playfully refused – the more he wanted it to happen. He wants Louis to meet Jade, see how funny and warm she is, and how talented. And while he likes the headband, he thinks Louis will like looking a little cleaned up, and not having to fuss with his hair. Or, knowing him as well Harry does at this point, fuss with it quite so much. 

It’s a fun distraction from being glued to his email, waiting for replies from potential therapists from the list Louis had helped him generate and starting over every time someone’s schedule doesn’t sync up with his. He tries learning Louis’ tickle spots, but that tactic fails since apparently he’s a freak of nature and doesn’t have any. Tugging Louis’ headband off and braiding sections of his silky hair while they watch TV doesn’t work either, not even when he secures them with tiny butterfly clips; Louis just likes having his long hair played with. Not that Harry can blame him.

In the end, all it takes is a simple “please.” 

“Wait, really?” Harry asks, sitting on the edge of the couch and facing Louis.

“Yes, really,” Louis says, pressing his lips together to smother a smile, eyes on the TV. Harry pokes his rib and the smile wins out as Louis cries, “Hey!”

“But you’ve been saying no for a week!” Harry says, scrunching his nose. Louis’ grin is so  _ cute, _ it’s hard not to reciprocate. But he wants answers. “Why now?”

“You’re really cute when you want something,” Louis shrugs. “You get this determined look on your face, and you square your shoulders, and when you really get going, you flare your nostrils, just a tiny bit–”

“I do not!” Harry squawks, hands flying up to cover his nose. “I  _ don’t.” _

“You do,” Louis laughs, prying Harry’s hands from his face. “It’s fucking adorable.”

“Hmph,” Harry grumbles, sitting back on the couch and facing the TV. He catches sight of a disapproving Evie perched on her chair, watching the scene unfold.

“Aw, baby,” Louis coos, tugging Harry close and wrapping his arms around him. “Don’t be mad.”

He starts peppering Harry’s face with kisses, and Harry holds out as long as he can but he collapses into giggles, reveling in the affection. He usually initiates this kind of thing, since Louis has been letting him set the pace for the physical side of their relationship, but Harry  _ loves _ this, wants to soak it up like sunshine on an early summer day. One like today, actually.

“I’m not mad,” Harry squeals, as Louis starts tickling his stubborn love handles. “I’m not!”

“Okay, good,” Louis says, relenting at last and sitting back. “Although you’re cute when you’re mad, too, so… win win, really.”

Harry pulls a throw pillow from the side of the couch and thwacks Louis in the face. They laugh and wrestle over the throw pillow for a minute, but then Evie stalks over and jumps onto the couch, sitting down on the sliver of cushion between them. 

“Chaperone strikes again,” Louis whispers, scratching at Evie’s head as she starts to purr. “I don’t have class Tuesdays, do you think Jade has any time open next week?”

“I’ll check,” Harry says happily, picking up his phone from the coffee table. He glances over at his boyfriend. “Thanks, Lou.”

“Well, you did use the magic word,” Louis says, shaking his head exaggeratedly so his hair flies a bit. “But really, you two are doing me the favor, so thank you.”

* 

“You look so hot in your sunglasses,” Harry remarks, glancing at Louis as they walk down the street to the salon. “It’s completely unfair.”

“What,” Louis says innocently, gesturing to aviators that are currently ruining Harry’s life. “These old things?”

“Yes.” Harry shoves lightly at Louis’ shoulder. “Stop it.”

“I can’t help it if bright sun hurts my eyes, Harold,” Louis sniffs. “Besides, you know I love torturing you with my scorching good looks.”

He tosses his hair and smirks, and Harry shakes his head as he holds the salon door open for him. Not so secretly, he loves being tortured by Louis’ ridiculous good looks as much as Louis loves torturing him. Match made in heaven really. Or hell.

“Harry!” A chorus of voices greets them.

Harry lifts his hand in a wave before he spots Jade, rushing up from the back with a huge grin on her face.

“You must be Louis,’ she exclaims, holding her hand out. “Oh, it’s so good to meet you, I’ve heard all about you.”

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Louis jokes, shaking Jade’s hand.

“Oh, Louis, babes, you’re freezing,” Jade chides, looking over to where Harry is watching their exchange. “Harry, be a gentleman and go get that ugly cardigan you keep in your office, yeah?”

“Hey,” Harry whines as Louis cackles. “I like that sweater.”

Neither his best friend nor his boyfriend is listening to his protest, already walking back to the sinks lining the back wall.

“Now, Louis,” Jade says over her shoulder as she leads the way. “Tell me, what’s your favorite thing about Harry?”

“Um, his curls or his smell, I think,” Louis replies without hesitation.

Well, that’s… that’s something. Luckily Harry doesn’t have to try and hide his goofy smile since they’re not paying attention and he’s supposed to be… doing something. 

“Harry!” Jade calls from the back, shooing him. “Cardigan! Big ugly tan one! Go, now!”

Oh, that’s right. Harry nods and turns to leave, the sound of Louis’ peals of laughter following him. He walks briskly back to the bakery, not eager to leave the two of them alone for long since Jade has almost twenty years’ worth of embarrassing stories to tell in his absence. It’s quiet in the bakery, their usual midafternoon lull, so he makes it to his office quickly and grabs the sweater he keeps there. He waves to Sarah behind the counter on his way out, grabbing his phone to check how long he’s been gone.

A notification from Google Docs pops up and Harry swipes to unlock his phone, skimming the comment replies on the last essay he’s given feedback on for a friend in his writers group. He makes it back to the salon on autopilot, his heart sinking and shoulders sagging as he takes in what’s on his screen. Luckily someone was exiting the salon just as he reached it or he might have just kept walking through downtown not noticing.

He starts down the wide center aisle, eyes still on his phone, until Jade’s voice breaks through his distracted haze.

“Babes!” she calls from her station by the window. “We’re up here.”

Harry turns and looks up, spirits lifting a little at how happy Jade and Louis look as they chat. He walks over, holding the cardigan out to Louis, who gratefully accepts it and shrugs it on. Like the rest of Harry’s clothes, it’s a little big on him, and it stirs something in Harry, the way Louis looks equal parts adorable and hot in his clothes. The way he looks like he belongs to Harry.

Jade swishes around the chair, setting out products and tools before arranging a large black smock over Louis. 

“Well, now this is really unfair,” Harry complains, gesturing to where Louis sits. “No one looks good in one of those smocks with their hair wet, Louis, no one. What the fuck.”

Louis throws his head back and laughs before Jade steps behind him, comb and hair clips in hand.

“Okay, babes,” she says seriously. “Don’t let him distract you now, need you to hold still for me, okay?”

“Good luck,” Harry says as he walks over to the windowsill and perches on it, gripping his phone. “He’s a fidgeter.”

It comes out bitter, humorless, and Harry winces. He’d only meant for his remark to be lightly teasing. Louis does fidget, it drives Harry crazy, but not in a bad way.

“What’s the matter?” Louis asks softly, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye as Jade tilts his head in the position she wants. “Harry?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid,” Harry mutters, setting his phone down beside him so it won’t be as obvious his hands are shaking. His heart is thudding and adrenaline courses through his veins, but he doesn’t think anyone can tell that.

“What is it, babes?” Jade asks, glancing over at him before looking back to Louis’ hair and snipping a few strands. “It’s something.”

Harry sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s overreacting, he  _ knows _ he’s overreacting. And he’s been trying so hard, all the time, to be more open about his feelings. It’s exhausting. He’s exhausted. But he doesn’t want to shut them out. 

“I just got an email when I was on my way back,” Harry says finally, picking up his phone and waving it. “Jeff, this guy from my writers group–”

“Ugh, Jeff,” Jade interrupts, pausing her work to roll her eyes.

“What’s he done now?” Leigh-Anne asks from the next station, where she’s just finished sweeping the floor around her chair. 

“Who’s Jeff?” Louis asks, his voice muffled. He keeps his chin tilted down to his chest, and Harry sees Jade smile in approval.

“Just this guy in my writers group–”

“He went to school with us,” Jade adds, plucking a clip from Louis’ hair. “Not like a bad guy? But kind of–”

“Pompous?” Leigh-Anne suggests, walking around to sit next to Harry. “Arrogant? Conceited?”

None of this is helping Harry calm down. If anything, he feels even more aggravated.

“He has family money,” Jade says, as if that explains everything. “He–”

“He’s a guy in my writers group,” Harry repeats through clenched teeth. “He asked me to read an essay and give feedback, and I just got the email notification with his replies to my comments.”

“Harry,” Louis says quietly. “Okay?”

He appreciates the gesture, but he’s not really. He shouldn’t have started talking about this, he should have known Leigh-Anne would chime in, he won’t be able to explain properly–

“What’d he say?” Jade asks, interrupting Harry’s spiral. “He didn’t like the feedback?”

“Louis, Harry is  _ so good _ at giving feedback,” Leigh-Anne says, bumping her shoulder against his. “I had to give a speech at this convention once, and he helped so much, organizing my thoughts and cleaning it up. He’s the best.”

Harry smiles weakly. He needs to stop being such a dick. He  _ knows _ his friends mean well. God, he’s the worst.

“Yeah, he um…” Harry frowns at his phone. “He just seemed kind of defensive, I guess? I thought he really wanted feedback on the content, so I spent, like, hours going over it, but maybe he just meant he needed proofreading or something.”

“Oh, babes,” Jade says sympathetically. “That really sucks.”

“You know Jeff,” Leigh-Anne says, waving her hand dismissively. “He can’t handle criticism, even when it’s constructive. Just ignore him.”

“I just really thought we were on the same page,” Harry says, unlocking his phone and skimming through the email again. “But every single thing, he’s pushing back on, and it’s just his tone seems really harsh–”

“Don’t worry about it, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Leigh-Anne says cheerfully. “If it makes you feel better, they just announced the season premiere date for  _ Riverdale, _ it’s–”

“I  _ am _ worried about it,” Harry interrupts, his frustration rising. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Sorry,” Leigh-Anne says, not sounding sorry at all. She holds her hands up in surrender as she gets up. “Just trying to help.”

She walks to the backroom in a huff and Harry looks at Jade and Louis helplessly.

“I know she was only trying to help,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. “But why isn’t it okay for me to be upset?”

Jade’s hands still and Louis moves his head to look at Harry directly. He reaches a hand out, and Harry sighs shakily, taking it.

“It is okay for you to be upset,” he says seriously. “It is.”

“It’s just…” Jade shrugs. “It’s just hard when you try to help and don’t feel like the other person appreciates it.”

“I do appreciate it,” Harry retorts. “How am I not appreciating it? Because I’m still upset?”

“Babe, I’m sorry,” Jade says. She looks up to the ceiling and scratches her head, clearly trying to find words that won’t upset him further. “I don’t mean to say you were wrong, but I’m sure she thought she was helping.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to  _ do,” _ Harry says, squeezing Louis’ cool hand as a few tears escape his eyes. “I need a script or something, just tell me what to say next time, because all I was trying to do was talk about how I felt, not be, like, ungrateful or whatever.”

“I don’t think she realized how upset you were,” Louis offers. “I mean, I know I only just met her, but–”

“Because it’s not that big a deal,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “It just is to me because I’m so crazy right now.”

“It’s okay that it’s a big deal to you,” Jade bristles on his behalf. “You invest a lot of time and energy into giving feedback, and you thought you were helping Jeff. That’s the kind of help you want when you write, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, it is, I want the people I trust to tell me what they think, so I can be better.” 

“Exactly,” Jade says. “Leigh just… like Louis said, she didn’t realize how upset you were, that’s all.” 

“And if she knew more about it, or maybe if she’d let you talk more,” Louis says, glancing back at Jade. “Sorry, I–”

“No, it’s okay, she didn’t really give Harry a chance to explain,” Jade concedes. “I think she wasn’t expecting it to be serious, or something.”

Harry’s heart has slowed back to a normal rate and his hands have stopped shaking. He takes a couple of deep breaths, squeezes Louis’ hand one last time, and stands up.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna go grab some water, and you–” he points at Jade with a small smile “–have a job to do, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, grinning at Harry in the mirror. “What’s a guy got to do around here to get his hair cut?”

Jade rolls her eyes fondly, and then tilts Louis’ chin back down before combining out the section at the back she was trimming before their talk became serious. Harry pats her shoulder and kisses her cheek, then goes to grab a cup of water. He’ll probably have to talk to Leigh-Anne, clear the air, but he decides to wait until he feels like he can explain his reactions properly.

If he can ever explain his reactions properly. Maybe if he finally manages to track down a therapist who takes his insurance, can work with his schedule, and doesn’t seem like an awkward fit. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask, but fuck, it’s taking a long time. 


	9. Chapter 9

It’s past eight o’clock but the sun hasn’t gone down yet, the sky is still light and streaked with possibility. Harry pauses outside the doorway of the large house that’s been converted into offices, sniffling. He roots around in his messenger bag for his packet of tissues, wondering why he bothered to put them away. The pack had fallen into the corner in the two minutes since he’d left the therapist’s office and walked outside, but Harry’s too drained to even feel annoyed about it, calculating how long it will take him to walk home and get in bed, light sky be damned. 

He looks up as he finishes blowing his nose to see a very pale, very beautiful boy loitering on the sidewalk. He hasn’t noticed Harry watching him yet, distracted by something on his phone. He flicks his neatly trimmed hair out of his face and Harry grins in spite of his exhausted state. Jade was right, he did need some shape to his hair. She’d left a nice longer piece in front and now that Harry knows it’s a possibility for tonight, he plans to gently toy with it like he has every day for the last week.

Just as Harry is about to call Louis’ name, he looks up and their eyes meet. He smiles at the sight of Harry, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he lifts his hand to wave. He shrugs at the silent question in Harry’s eyes.

“Walk you home?”

The kindness of the gesture cracks something open in Harry’s chest and he starts crying, even though he’d spent much of the last hour crying and shouldn’t have any tears left. His face crumples and he nods, taking a couple of steps forward. Louis quickly closes the distance between them and Harry falls into his arms, nuzzling into the cool skin of his neck. Louis doesn’t ask if he’s okay, he just holds him for a couple of minutes, scratching lightly at Harry’s scalp with one hand just the way he likes. 

Harry straightens up and blows his nose again when the tears slow, smiling gratefully at his boyfriend. “What are you doing here?”

“Just thought you might want company,” Louis says softly, cupping Harry’s cheek with his hand. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, clutching his tissue with one hand and taking Louis’ cold hand in his other. “Yeah, I do.”

They start down the sidewalk, hogging the middle since there aren’t many people out and about in this part of downtown at night. Most people must frequent these businesses during the day, but it stresses Harry out to arrange appointments when the bakery is open to customers. Unless, that is, his best friend kidnaps him for haircuts during slow afternoons. 

Harry tries to figure out where to start as they pass a law firm and small veterinary clinic. Louis doesn’t push, just waits patiently as they amble down the sidewalk.

“Well, I think I liked him,” Harry starts, brow furrowed in thought. “He was kind of upbeat? But not, like, cloying.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he just seemed, like… kind.” Harry wipes a stray tear away with the heel of his hand. “Compassionate.”

“That’s good, that’s really good.”

“I think it was mostly normal first appointment stuff,” he continues, letting Louis pull him along as they cross the street. “He said I did a really good job filling out the paperwork.”

“Of course you did,” Louis says, bristling as though there was any suggestion that Harry didn’t. “I saw how carefully you worked on it.”

“Yeah.” Harry bites back a smile. He’s always had a thing for praise from his boyfriends, but it’s like next level with Louis. Any literate adult could have filled out the same questionnaire just as well, but Harry’s practically blushing at Louis’ obvious approval. “Yeah, um…”

He blows out a breath and Louis glances over, giving him a small smile.

“So after he told me a little about his experience and his practice,” Harry says, gathering his thoughts. “Then we went over policies, and my paperwork, and he asked what made me seek out counseling.”

Louis squeezes his hand, his skin absorbing some of Harry’s heat already, and waits for him to continue.

“So I told him how my dad passed away, and I didn’t really feel like I was able to grieve the way I needed to–”

Louis raises his eyebrows and Harry stumbles, realizing he must not have said that in so many words before to Louis.

“–because we just, um… we didn’t talk about it enough, and now I feel like I can’t talk about it. And I think that I’ve been choosing not to open up to, like, protect myself? But it’s really just hurting me in the long run, like it’s not working, I’m not coping very well.”

Louis nods and squeezes his hand again, his light blue eyes carefully watching Harry.

“So he started asking a lot of questions and it was like he was going down some checklist. And a lot of stuff didn’t really apply, I mean, I’ve never wanted to hurt myself or, like, not be around anymore, nothing like that. I sleep pretty well. But other stuff…”

“Felt more like you?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Yeah. He didn’t come right out and say so, but I think he thinks I’ve been in, like, a depressive episode. Just the way he phrased some things. Like, he asked about my goals, and I said how I want to be more open but I’m struggling with the patterns I have in place, like how break to them and stop shutting down, and I said I don’t want to overreact to small things–”

Harry sees Louis open his mouth to protest and shakes his head.

“No, I appreciate you validating me,” he says, cutting Louis off at the pass. “But I do overreact. Something that would normally upset or annoy me, like, consumes me right now, it’s disproportionate. Like the other day, with Leigh-Anne? At the salon? Yeah, it was okay to be upset, I felt like she was being dismissive, but I was having, like, a physical, visceral response. And he said that’s really common in grief and depressive episodes, and it’s a realistic goal to work towards, not being consumed by stuff like that.”

Louis nods, tugging at Harry’s hand to stay together as he starts to turn a corner. Harry looks around, surprised at how close they are to home already. 

“How do you…” Louis starts, clearly searching for the right words. “How do you feel about that, the depressive episode thing?”

“Half of me is kind of relieved,” Harry confesses. “I knew something was wrong, I knew I haven’t felt like myself. But the other half is like wow, that’s intense. I’ve never had, like, a mental health diagnosis.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Louis murmurs. “Do you feel good about this guy? Do you think he can help?”

“It kind of felt like we just scratched the surface tonight,” Harry admits. “I didn’t get into a lot about my family dynamics, I don’t think I even mentioned what I do for a living.”

“Did you set up another appointment?” Louis asks, slowing his pace as they approach the path to Harry’s apartment.

“Yeah, I felt comfortable enough to,” Harry says, rummaging in his bag for his keys. “Same time next week. So we’ll probably cover more then. It’s weird, the hour kind of flew by. I cried, like, a lot.”

“That’s okay,” Louis smiles, thumbing at Harry’s lower lip. “That must happen all the time.”

“No, I know,” Harry replies. “I know, I’m just so exhausted. I always feel like I’m sick after a good cry like that, like I’m getting over a cold or something.”

Louis doesn’t say anything right away and Harry can practically see the internal debate on his face as he tries to work out whether he should offer to come in or give Harry his space. He scrunches his nose, trying to hide how fond he is of Louis at this particular moment, even though he’s sure that never works.

“Lou,” he says, tugging the belt loop on Louis’ skinny jeans to draw him closer. “Could you maybe… stay tonight?”

Louis stares at him dumbly and then Harry realizes how his question sounded. They haven’t progressed past light groping during their makeout sessions on the couch, let alone done sleepovers yet, so it must have seemed completely out of left field. But Harry just really needs to be cuddled tonight.

“Not like that,” Harry says sheepishly. “Sorry. I just meant, like, snuggling? A lot of snuggling, like a truly excessive amount. And we could just… sleep? I kind of, that is, if you’re not busy or anything, I know you must have a lot of studying to do for that exam next week, but–”

“Harold,” Louis says softly. “Come on, baby, spit it out.”

“I just, um...” Harry shrugs before laying all his cards on the table. “I need you.”

“I would love to stay,” Louis responds immediately. He caresses the side of Harry’s face, letting him lean into the touch. “Would love for you let me take care of you.”

Harry closes his eyes, letting Louis’ words wash over him. No one has said those words to him in a long, long time, maybe ever. It’s exactly what he needs, a balm to the ever-present dull ache of grief he’s been living with. 

“Come on,” Louis whispers, starting to guide Harry up the path with a gentle hand to his lower back. “Let’s go see Miss Evie, get you some water. And blankets, we have to raid that linen closet of yours, tonight calls for blankets.”

Harry giggles as they make their way up the porch and he unlocks the door, letting Louis usher him inside and take his messenger bag. It’s cute the way he fusses over Harry, making him wash his face before instructing him to sit on the couch while he runs around getting a glass of cold water and a couple of blankets to spread out on the couch. Louis moves the box of tissues to the coffee table, right in front of Harry, and stands to the side, tapping his chin. Finally, he grabs the remote and sits down on the couch, cuddling right up to Harry. He flicks his eyes over to Harry as he points the remote at the TV.

“What do you say, Harold,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Time to introduce me to  _ Riverdale?” _

“Really?” Harry knows he’s probably grinning like a maniac, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s always been a sucker for a teen prime time soap, but he’s never had a boyfriend willing to indulge him in it before. “Are you sure? It’s such a trash fire, but it’s my trash fire.”

“Love a good trash fire,” Louis says airily, eyes on the TV as he pulls up the show on Netflix. “You know, you’ll probably have to explain things to me.”

Harry’s speechless, he literally can’t think of a better way to end this day. He thought he was going to crawl in bed before nine o’clock and stare at the ceiling, willing himself to fall asleep and knowing it probably wouldn’t even recharge him. This is so much better than that.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes roving over Louis’ face. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Louis leans in and brushes his soft lips against Harry’s, lingering for just a moment. 

“Okay,” he declares, sitting back and wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Now, don’t distract me, I need to pay attention.”

It turns out Louis takes his teen prime time soap viewing very seriously, or he’s just doing good a good imitation of it for Harry’s sake. He doesn’t care either way, so long as Louis keeps shushing him when he accidentally talks over dialogue and pausing the show to ask questions. Harry helpfully supplies bits of canon from the comics that Jade and Jesy have filled him in on, and zips his lips every time Louis gets close to a spoiler. It’s so much fun that Harry forgets how tired he is, until a yawn interrupts him halfway through a comment about Veronica’s fondness for capes. 

Louis looks at him fondly, resting his head against the back of the couch.

“Time for bed?”

Harry nods, smiling sheepishly. It’s still so early, but if he doesn’t get up now then he’ll just end up sleeping on the couch and waking up with a crick in his neck or an achy back. 

Louis insists on helping Harry with his nighttime routine, cleaning Evie’s litter box without protest and filling her water dish before walking around and turning off lights and checking that the doors are locked. Harry trails after him, rubbing his eyes and thinking how he could get used to this. 

He’s already washed his face, so he just needs to brush his teeth before bed. Louis walks into the bathroom, crossing his eyes at Harry in the mirror.

“Here,” Harry says, rummaging through a drawer. “I have a spare toothbrush for you.”

“Oh,” Louis says, sounding surprised. He reaches out to take it from Harry. “Oh, right. Thank you.”

He stands next to Harry at the sink, looking down at the toothbrush like it’s a foreign object. Harry laughs, shaking his head, and squeezes some toothpaste onto Louis’ after he does his own. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t have one for you to use?” he asks, before starting to brush his teeth. Around his toothbrush, he continues, “You’ve seen my linen closet, you know I’m fully stocked.”

Louis laughs and shrugs before he starts to slowly brush his teeth. It’s cute that he’s surprised, maybe even touched, and it makes Harry want to hug him, so he does, sidling up to Louis and wrapping his arm around his waist. They stand there, brushing their teeth together in companionable silence, and it’s just nice. Intimate. 

Once they’re done spitting and rinsing, Harry shoos Louis out of the bathroom so he can pee in private. He’ll probably wake up a couple of times during the night to go too considering how much water Louis had made him drink to rehydrate. God, he’s cute when he’s taking care of him. Once Harry let him, he took those little tasks so seriously.

When he shuffles into the bedroom, he stops in his tracks and cracks up at the sight before him. It’s possible he’s a little punch drunk, because once he starts laughing, he can’t stop.

“What?” Louis asks, crossing his arms in a huff. “I told you, tonight calls for blankets!”

Louis has piled at least three extra blankets on the bed, mostly pulled to the side he’s sitting on, waiting for Harry. Harry strips off his t-shirt and throws it in the hamper before moving to undo his jeans.

“Lou,” Harry says, shaking his head as he discards his jeans. He flips the light switch since Louis’ already turned on the lamp by the bed and walks over. He gestures to the mass of blankets. “It’s June. We’re not gonna need this many covers.”

“I thought you liked being cozy,” Louis pouts. “I’m  _ helping.” _

“Well, since you run cold,” Harry says, getting in under the covers and pushing a plaid fleece blanket over to Louis’ side. “You can have most of the blankets. I’ll roast if I have this much on me while I’m trying to sleep, wake up all sweaty and gross.”

“You could never be gross, baby,” Louis says, leaning in and kissing Harry on the nose. “What did I tell you when we first met, nice little body. I had no idea.”

“Just wait ’til August,” Harry warns him, deflecting the praise even though he loves it. “Late summer in the Midwest? I’ll be disgusting, sweat in my hair, my clothes. You’ll leave me.”

Louis squawks indignantly on Harry’s behalf as he reaches over and plugs his phone in before setting the alarm. 

“You comfy?” Harry asks. “Did you want to borrow anything?”

“Nah, I’m good in my t-shirt,” Louis assures him, scooting down under his pile of blankets and laying his head on the pillow. “Thank you, though.”

“You ready for lights out?” Harry asks, admiring the tiny halo of caramel-colored hair around Louis’ head on the pillow.

“Yeah, ready.”

Harry turns off the lamp and gets situated, lying on his side and facing Louis. He’s not used to sleeping in the same bed with someone, and he’s pretty sure if he tries to spoon with Louis, he really will wake up a sweaty mess. He reaches a hand across the middle of the bed and tangles his fingers with Louis,’ hoping he’s good with the compromise.

“Harold,” Louis whispers, holding Harry’s hand in his.

“Yeah, Lou?”

“Kiss me goodnight?”

Harry shuffles forward a couple of inches and leans in to kiss Louis, but misses by about a mile, catching his earlobe. They clutch each other as they collapse into giggles.

“Harold!” Louis says. “I thought you said just sleeping! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“I can’t see,” Harry protests through his giggles. “It’s too dark! I haven’t gotten my bearings yet.”

“Come here,” Louis murmurs, and suddenly the moment turns serious. The room is quiet, still, as Louis tilts Harry’s chin with his finger and leans up, capturing Harry’s lips with his own. He kisses him once, then twice, lingering in his space as their minty breath mixes together. Harry bends his head and kisses Louis’s soft lips one more time before awkwardly shuffling back to his side. 

“Good night, Lou,” Harry whispers, laying his hand in the space between them. 

“Night, Harold,” Louis whisper back, toying with Harry’s fingers.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

“I’m glad you asked me to.”

Harry struggles to keep his eyes open, wanting to admire Louis’ pale skin in the moonlight that falls through the curtains, even though he’s exhausted. Louis is so beautiful, and he knows it, which Harry loves about him. But there’s no way Louis could ever really know just how beautiful he is to Harry. It’s something he’d never be able to properly put into words. 

His last thought before he falls asleep is that maybe he should try.

*

Harry sleeps like a log. His bladder wakes him up before his alarm does, and he blinks awake, noting that he’s in the same position he fell asleep in, on his side and facing Louis, with his hand stretched out to meet his. He gives Louis’ hand a squeeze before twisting to turn the alarm off so it won’t disturb Louis and getting up to relieve himself. Evie mewls at him in the hallway, so once he’s done in the bathroom, he pads down to the kitchen and fills her dish. 

Since he’s up, he might as well start addressing their caffeine needs, so he puts the kettle on and grabs the box of Yorkshire tea he keeps in the cupboard. Then he turns to the coffee maker, measuring out the grounds and adding water before pressing the button. He hears the shower go on in the bathroom down the hall and smiles to himself at the thought of Louis making himself at home in Harry’s apartment. 

The kettle takes less time than the coffee maker since Harry always makes a full pot, so he prepares Louis’ tea for him while the coffee brews, deciding to take it to him in the bathroom. The door’s ajar and Louis’ raspy voice travels down the hallway as he sings something Hary can’t quite place. Maybe after a cup of coffee. He taps on the door.

“Lou? I’ve got tea, I’ll just set it on the counter?”

“Thanks, baby,” Louis calls back.

Harry feels like a creep watching Louis’ naked form dance along to the song he’s belting out behind the opaque shower curtain, so he sets the mug down and walks back to his bedroom. He’s not going to bother showering, he usually prefers to do it at night so he doesn’t have to rush around and worry about his curly hair drying just right when he’s trying to get to work. When he reaches his dresser, he pulls open his underwear drawer, figuring he’ll get dressed and then have his coffee while he makes breakfast. He wonders what kind of breakfast food Louis likes as he paws through the drawer, his fingers landing on a piece of silk toward the back.

Oh. Hm. 

It’s been awhile since Harry has worn anything but boxers. He’s always liked the feel of panties against his skin, and he has a small collection of mostly silk ones, with one or two lace mixed in. They make him feel… pretty. Desirable. And then there’s the thrill of wearing them while he’s going about a normal day, work, errands, whatever, and no one can tell what he has on underneath his clothes. But  _ he _ knows. Harry hasn’t even thought about wearing one of these pairs in months, he just hasn’t had the energy or interest. Desire.

But today, as he pushes aside the boxers to uncover the neglected soft pastels at the bottom of the drawer, something stirs in his chest. Or farther south if he’s completely honest. The sound of the shower shutting off jolts him, and Harry almost tweaks his neck whipping his head to look back at the bedroom door. It’s wide open, so if he doesn’t want Louis to see him change, he’ll have to hurry. He grabs a pair of pale pink panties, silk and edged with a thin line of darker pink lace, and shoves the boxers he slept in down to his ankles, kicking them away. He forces himself to slow down as he pulls the panties on, he has no desire to explain to a doctor what he was doing if he falls and breaks something in his haste. 

He tugs at the cool fabric until it sits just right, hugging his semi and cupping his small cheeks. Looking down at the soft pink against his own pale skin, Harry feels pretty again. Desirable. Like himself. He almost forgets that his boyfriend is about to walk in the door as he admires himself. 

“Hey, Ha–” Louis chokes on his words as he stops in the doorway, his pale skin a bit pink from the hot shower. Harry would have choked on his own words if he’d been speaking, the towel around Louis’ waist doesn’t hide much, there are miles on pale, damp skin on display, taking his breath away. They stare at each other for a moment until Louis manages to speak.  _ “Harry.” _

His voice is hushed, reverent, and Harry thrills in it. His cheeks heat up and he bites his lip, looking up at Louis from under his lashes. Louis takes a hesitant step forward, clearly trying to suss out what Harry wants, so Harry reaches his hand out to him.

“Baby,” Louis breathes, taking Harry’s hand and pulling him in close. The warmth of Louis’ usually cool skin and the familiar scent of Harry’s body wash clinging to it overwhelms him and he closes his eyes for a moment. The feel of Louis gingerly placing his hands just above Harry’s hips, where he has stubborn love handles no matter how much yoga he does, grounds him. He opens his eyes to see Louis staring at the silk fabric covering Harry’s rapidly hardening cock. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ ear, brushing his lips against the lobe he’d accidentally kissed last night. “You like them?”

“I love them,” Louis says immediately, squeezing Harry’s hips before trailing his hands down to cup at his ass. “Oh my god, baby, I–”

Harry cuts him off with a kiss, lush and open mouthed from the start. It takes Louis by surprise, but he quickly catches up, licking into Harry’s mouth as he gropes at his ass over the panties. Harry clutches at Louis’ shoulders, matching his increasing fervor. He doesn’t regret taking it slow; he loves how their pent-up sexual energy is all pouring out now into the best kiss of his entire life. He can’t get enough of Louis and he knows it’s mutual; from the way Louis is holding him close, it seems like he wants to devour Harry. 

Harry wants to let him.

“Lou,” he breathes against Louis’ mouth, staying in his space. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Louis growls, picking Harry up and flinging him over his shoulder. Harry doesn’t even have time to react before Louis drops him onto the bed and crawls over his body. Louis pauses, searching Harry’s eyes. “Was that okay?”

“Fuck yeah, that was okay,” Harry says. He glances down to his crotch. “I don’t think my dick has ever been this hard in my life.”

Louis lowers his head, laughing against Harry’s shoulder for a moment before kissing his skin there. He slowly sucks lingering kisses along a meandering path to Harry’s jaw as he cups Harry’s erection through the silk fabric. 

And, oh fuck, it’s everything, but it’s not  _ enough. _ Harry bucks his hips, trying to get more friction, but Louis anticipates his every move, moving his hand along with Harry’s body to keep his touch light, teasing.

“Lou,” Harry whines, clawing at his shoulders. “Please touch me, please, I need you.”

Louis gently bites down on Harry’s collarbone, where he’d been sucking a bruise, and Harry gasps, rocking his hips again. This time Louis lets him thrust into his hand, fumbling to release Harry’s achingly hard cock from the silken confines of the panties that got them here. 

Finally Louis starts stroking him in earnest. When Harry gets this worked up on his own – and since meeting Louis, that’s become a regular occurrence – he jerks himself quickly, needing to get off, but Louis’ movements are more thorough than fast. Firm strokes starting at the base that end with his fingers toying with the beads of precome at the tip, making Harry moan wantonly. He feels desirable – no,  _ desired _ – and desperate and needy. The best part is that Louis has left his panties on, and his pale blue eyes are glued to the sight of Harry’s cock in his hand in front of the pink silk. 

“Baby,” Louis says gruffly, clearing his throat. “Can I taste?”

“Yes,” Harry cries, accidentally digging his fingernails into Louis’ skin when he grips his shoulders.  _ “Please.” _

Louis thrusts his tongue into Harry’s open, panting mouth first, kissing him wildly as he reaches into the panties to tug at Harry’s balls. It’s all too good, too much, Harry just lies back and takes it, drowning in the pleasure. Seemingly satisfied at the state he’s gotten Harry into, Louis pecks his lip, right where Harry usually pinches or bites it. The moment of tenderness amidst the searing heat between them brings a tear to Harry’s eye and Louis wipes it away before shuffling down Harry’s body, kissing a path to his destination.

Louis licks a stripe up Harry’s cock before swallowing him down, the shock of it tearing a loud moan from deep in Harry’s throat. It’s relentless, demanding, the way Louis sucks his cock, like he doesn’t need to come up for air. Harry almost bucks up when he feels the tip of his cock nudge the back of Louis’ throat – holy fuck, he’s deepthroating him, jesus christ, does his boyfriend not have a gag reflex – chasing the sensation, but Louis holds his hips down and has his way with him. Fucking fuck, it’s perfect, Harry’s never felt like this before, if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll–

Before he can finish his thought, Louis reaches up and pinches his nipple, hard, the way he loves it, and the slight, perfect amount of pain combined with the way Louis swallows around him is fucking  _ it, _ his cock starts to pulse and he comes down Louis’ throat. 

It feels like he comes forever, riding out his orgasm as Louis licks him clean. Just as he’s about to protest, starting to feel oversensitive, Louis sits back on his haunches between Harry’s legs and carefully tucks Harry’s spent cock back into his panties. Through his haze, Harry registers that he lost his towel at some point and he openly admires Louis’ cock, thick and lovely and hard. Louis takes it in his hand, tugging slowly, putting on a show for Harry. Harry  _ loves _ it. 

“What do you say, baby?” Louis says lowly, looking from his cock to Harry’s face. “Can I come on you? Get you all messy?”

Harry’s brain, after an earth-shattering orgasm and before his first cup of coffee, can barely keep up, but he manages to nod. Fuck, he wants that. He wants to be covered in Louis’ come, wants to be his. Louis kneels over him, stripping his cock, his eyes on Harry’s panties. Harry preens at the attention, flushing down to his chest. It only takes a couple of minutes before Louis starts to come in thick spurts all over the silk and Harry’s stomach. This is the darkest that Harry’s ever seen Louis’ eyes, the blue almost inky and sparkling like a gemstone, as he takes in the mess he’s made of him. He fingers the lacy edge of the panties and then lifts his hand to Harry’s mouth, smearing his come on Harry’s lower lip.

And Harry’s not twenty-four anymore, he needs some recovery time before he could come again, but his spent cock twitches as he obediently licks his lip, savoring the slightly sweet tang of Louis’ come as he watches him approvingly. 

“Good boy,” Louis whispers, his gaze returning to Harry’s slicked up torso. Harry can scarcely breathe.  _ Good boy. _ Fuck. Louis spreads his come around on the silk panties with his fingers. “Baby, you  _ like _ that, don’t you? Getting messy?”

Harry nods dumbly, too entranced by the dark, serious look on Louis’ face and the feel of his hand over the damp silk.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Louis says, withdrawing his hand and shaking his head, as if he’s coming out of his own trance. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t find the words. He shrugs helplessly, holding his arms out, and Louis settles over him, holding him and stroking his hair. This is so embarrassing, but Harry might actually cry. It’s just a little overwhelming that Louis can read him so well. Harry didn’t even have to ask for this, Louis just gave it to him. Most of the guys Harry’s dated have been pretty vanilla, and he hasn’t always been comfortable enough to talk about things he would want to try. But  _ Louis. _ Fuck. He was just as into this as Harry was. 

And this is only their first time, what’s sex with Louis going to be like once they’ve spent time learning each other’s bodies?

Louis starts peppering Harry’s face with kisses and he giggles, playfully turning his head as Louis chases him with his lips. He catches sight of his clock on the nightstand and groans when he sees the time. 

“I’ve got to get up,” he informs Louis regretfully. “I’m going to be so late.”

“Who’s working this morning?” Louis asks, idly kissing the bruises he’s left on Harry’s collarbones. “Sarah?”

“Yeah, she won’t mind but I have to text her,” Harry replies, squirming his way out from beneath Louis, who rolls onto his side and props his head on his elbow. Louis hums in acknowledgment as Harry stands and tugs the sticky fabric away from his skin. “Guess I’ll need to shower after all.”

The look on Louis’ face is anything but apologetic, downright smug actually, and Harry slides the ruined panties off and flings them at him.

“I’ll bring you coffee,” Louis calls after him as he heads into the hallway. “Save you some time.”

And as Harry turns on the shower and hears Louis pad down the hall, Evie mewling after him, he thinks again how easy it would be to get used to this.


	10. Chapter 10

“When do you have time to study?”

Louis looks up, tongue poking out between his teeth, and Harry would almost feel bad for breaking his concentration if he weren’t so cute.

“I study all the time, Harold,” Louis says as he carefully dips the nail polish brush back in the bottle before taking Harry’s left hand gingerly in his own. “Too much, if you ask me. There’s only so much room in my brain to store knowledge about the Carolingian Empire.”

Harry admires his right hand, the pale pink polish on his nails already mostly dry, as Louis starts slowly dragging the brush over Harry’s left pinky fingernail. Louis is good at this, really good. Probably even better than Camila, the manicurist at the girls’ salon. The first time they’d done this, Harry had wanted black polish and figured it didn’t really matter how it came out since he always chips his nail polish fairly quickly. But Louis had surprised him, painstakingly manicuring his nails, not a drop or smear of the stark black out of place. And then there’s the bonus of not having to make awkward small talk, pretending everything is fine when it’s not to adhere to some tacit social contract to keep things light. It’s not like you can just tell people like a manicurist or dental hygienist when you’re grieving or depressed.

“I must be a distraction, though,” Harry says, gesturing to the manicure setup on the coffee table and episode of  _ Friends _ playing in the background. “A bad influence, keeping you from your studies.”

“A bad influence,” Louis laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve really fallen in with the wrong crowd. Next thing I know, I’ll be doing yoga. Drinking herbal tea. Eating avocados.”

“Hey,” Harry whines, drawing the word out longer when Louis doesn’t bother reacting. He gently kicks Louis’ leg once he’s lifted the brush from Harry’s nail.

“Summer semester’s easy, Harold,” Louis says, eyes still on Harry’s hand rather than his face. “Only two classes. You’re not leading me astray, promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says, picking up his phone and unlocking it. Louis’ look of concentration is too cute not to document, so he quickly pulls up Instagram and starts recording a video for his story before Louis has a chance to stop poking his tongue out between his teeth. “You’re so good at this, Lou.”

Louis looks up, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at the compliment, but he just shakes his head and turns his attention back to his task once he catches on that Harry’s recording him. Harry records a second video of Louis studiously ignoring him, lips together in a thin line to suppress a smile as he efficiently moves along Harry’s nails. Once Harry’s done uploading the videos, he rests his head against the back of the couch, watching his boyfriend finish up. 

When his therapist had asked what his coping methods are when his regular phone calls and weekly visits with his mom are particularly stressful, Harry had been at a loss. That’s why he needs therapy, he doesn’t really have any. He isn’t coping, or at least he isn’t coping very well. Aside from his goal of being more open about his feelings, Harry decided that he should try little self care activities like painting his nails and doing face masks on Saturdays when he gets home from his mom’s, and Louis had been game to join in. He’s not sure it counts as coping exactly, but it’s nice to have something simple and fun to look forward to.

A blue notification light starts blinking on his phone, so Harry picks it up and swipes to unlock, groaning when he sees the reply to his story that his friend Nick sent.

“What?” Louis asks, blowing on Harry’s nails one last time before releasing his hand. “Careful, still wet.”

“Just Nick being Nick,” Harry says, holding his phone up so Louis can read the message.

“‘So the rumors are true, Harry Styles is officially a cougar,’” Louis reads aloud, laughing when he gets to the end. He twists the cap of the nail polish on before setting it on the coffee table and sits back against the arm of the sofa, facing Harry. “Didn’t you say his boyfriend’s, like, ten years younger than him? Mesh?”

“I think’s pronounced like meesh,” Harry says, tapping out three quick middle finger emojis to Nick. “But yeah, I’m no more a cougar than he is.”

“Well, you do drink white wine,” Louis says innocently, pulling Harry’s feet into his lap. “And look how many buttons of your shirt are undone.”

Harry squawks, hand flying up to his chest. He tosses a throw pillow at Louis’ face, but he catches it and slides it behind his head, smiling smugly. 

“You better not have ruined your nails,” Louis warns, shaking a finger at him. “Cougars can’t go running around with sloppy manicures.”

Harry examines his nails and they still look perfect to him. He holds up his hands and waggles them at Louis, who nods approvingly at him. Blushing, Harry searches for a topic of conversation that won’t prompt more teasing about their age difference. It doesn’t really bother him much after getting to know Louis, but he’s caught a couple of odd looks from strangers when they’ve been out hand in hand, and he doesn’t exactly love that. 

“How did you get so good at this?” Harry asks, waving his hand again. “Did you used to paint your sisters’ nails?”

“Yeah, Lottie mostly,” Louis answers, distractedly rubbing a hand over Harry’s ankle. “Then she was old enough to do it for the others, but I was like, on call, especially if there was a party or dance or something.”

“How old is Lottie again?” Harry asks, wrinkling his brow. Louis has a lot of siblings but Harry hasn’t seen many photos yet, and he has trouble keeping them straight.

“She’s six years younger than me,” Louis replies, running his finger lightly along the bottom of Harry’s foot and smirking when he shivers. “Hey, you didn’t really mention – how did it go at your mom’s today?”

It’s the last thing Harry feels like talking about – which is exactly why he should. He sighs, scooting down on the couch to try and get more comfortable. Louis holds up the blanket that was draped over the back of the couch with his eyebrows raised and Harry nods. Once the blanket is draped over their legs instead of the couch, Harry starts toying with his phone, idly turning it over as he thinks about where to start.

“I mean, it was fine,” he says at last, glancing up at Louis. “I told you my sister is out of town for the summer, right? She’s working in D.C. and she took the kids–”

“Right, and her husband is flying out every weekend,” Louis finishes, nodding.

“Yeah, so every Friday he’s been dropping off their cat at my mom’s condo,” Harry continues. “And it just, like, makes her anxious to have that responsibility? She’s worried the cat will get out and it’ll be her fault that he got lost, even though he’s old and I’m sorry but he’s so fat, Lou. He’s not gonna make a break for it, you know?”

“I can’t believe you’re body shaming a cat, Harold.” Louis clucks his tongue. He gestures toward Evie, curled on her chair, ignoring them. “What would Miss Evie say?”

“No, look,” Harry says, pulling up a photo of the orange cat in question on his phone and holding it up for Louis to see. “He’s very… round, okay? I swear he weighs more than my nephew. He’s valid, but he’s big.”

“He is pretty big,” Louis concedes, sitting back. “So your mom was worried about him while you were over there?”

“It’s not just that,” Harry says slowly, tugging his lower lip. “Like… when she gets anxious about something, it’s like her memory is even worse. So the whole time we were having dinner, the whole time back at the condo when I was taking care of filling her pillbox and ordering groceries, it was just the same conversation about the cat on a loop.”

“What was the conversation?” Louis asks, rubbing a cool hand soothingly over Harry’s leg.

“She has a hard time retaining Elizabeth’s plans,” Harry explains. “So it’s the same question about, like, how long is she going to be there? When did she leave? When is she coming back? And then it’s ‘well, I wonder when Brian is coming to pick up the cat,’ when it’s written on her day planner in her handwriting that he’s coming on Monday.”

“You sound frustrated,” Louis murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not… I’m not…” Harry blows out a breath. “Yeah, it’s frustrating. But it’s not just that, like, it’s annoying to keep having to repeat myself, you know?”

“No?” Louis lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head. “What is it?”

“This is awful,” Harry starts, staring down at his nails. “But it’s like… I love my mom, I want to see her, I want to do things for her, but it’s just this constant reminder that I don’t know who will be there for me when I’m old and can’t take care of myself. It’s…” Harry pauses, taking a breath before rushing out, “it’s scary, really fucking scary, and I don’t like to think about it and my sisters don’t have to since they have kids so they don’t get it. And I feel like a piece of shit bringing it up to my friends who aren’t married or don’t have kids, it just feels shitty and selfish.”

“It’s not, Harry,” Louis says, gently rubbing his hand over Harry’s ankle. “I promise, it’s not.”

“It feels like it,” Harry says softly, glancing up. Louis’ lips are parted, but no words come out. Fuck it, he’s come this far. He might as well tell him the rest. 

If there’s anyone he can tell, it’s Louis.

“I don’t want to die alone,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t want to end up in a home or something where they don’t pay the staff enough and no one visits me. But like…”

Tears flood Harry’s eyes and his shoulder start to shake as he continues.

“It sounds stupid, but my dad dying made death real in a way it wasn’t before. And I’m fucking scared, Lou. I don’t know if, like, dying peacefully in your sleep is real or if that’s just something we tell ourselves to make us feel better–”

“Why, baby?” Louis murmurs, sitting up and grabbing the tissue box to place in Harry’s lap. 

“That’s what we tell people, he died in his sleep,” Harry chokes out, his whole body wracked with sobs. “But he was, like, hallucinating earlier that night, my mom told me, he thought people were calling him and telling him he was going to die. And I can’t stand it, I can’t stand thinking about it.”

“Baby,” Louis breathes. He rests his hand on Harry’s knee. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Harry can’t manage words, so he just shrugs as another sob escapes him.

“Have you ever told anyone that?”

“I tr-tried talking to Nick about it once,” Harry admits, taking a breath and trying to wipe the tears from his face but they’re falling so fast it doesn’t help. “We had this email thread going, this was after he moved to New York for his new job. And I kind of… I think I downplayed it, it was like the third of four paragraphs or something.”

“And what happened?”

“He never replied.”

Harry finally grabs a tissue and blows his nose, not really registering Louis’ silence until his grip on Harry’s knee starts to hurt.

“Lou?”

“Oh, fuck,” Louis says, looking down and relaxing his hand. “Sorry, I just… that’s really fucked up.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks weakly. He’s always thought so, but he’s never been able to bring himself to tell anyone before. “He, um… I mean, I know he was distracted by the new job, new city, and like maybe it was triggering for him because of his dad or I didn’t make it seem important–”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts. “I don’t care. That was fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “Yeah, it was. What do you, um… what do you think happens when we die, Lou?”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “What do you think happens?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Harry says. “I used to believe in heaven, and then it was more like you hear so much about spirits and energies lingering, and the idea of reincarnation is kind of fascinating. And it was like, maybe dying is traumatic because it’s a transition to something better, like birth. You know the last words I said to my dad?”

“What, baby?”

“‘I’ll see you next time,’” Harry recites. “Kind of dumb, yeah? Didn’t get to see him again. There was no next time. But I thought for a while, like, maybe in the greater sense it was sort of true? But the more I think about it, there’s one thing that makes more sense than the other possibilities.”

“What’s that?”

“Like,” Harry struggles to say the words that have been haunting him. “Like, when you die, you’re just… gone. There isn’t anything after, you don’t exist anymore. But,” Harry sobs, “I can’t wrap my mind around that, like it’s too big a concept, nothingness. I can’t.”

“I know you feel like you’re alone in that,” Louis says softly. “But I know you’re not. People just–”

“Don’t like to talk about it,” Harry finishes, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know. It’s just… how are we supposed to process things if we don’t talk about them? Like when my dad got sick, he didn’t want to, like… have these goodbye conversations, you know? And I don’t know what that would have looked like for me, I don’t know what I would have said or wanted him to say, but I think I really needed to have it.”

“Oh,” Louis says slowly. “Oh, that’s what you meant when you mentioned not being able to grieve the way you needed?”

“Partly,” Harry nods. “He was, like… he’d had this health scare maybe 15 years before died, internal ulcers, he was in the ICU, he had two emergency surgeries. It was really serious. And he said to his oncologist after he was diagnosed, he thought that was it back then, so he’d made peace with dying a long time ago. And I just…”

“Just what?”

“I just don’t fucking get it,” Harry says. Suddenly it’s like his body can’t contain everything he’s finally letting himself feel, right at the surface, so he stands and starts pacing. “I don’t get being okay with dying, I don’t get… like, he didn’t want a funeral, didn’t want lots of goodbyes, he just wanted to die quietly, like… but he doesn’t just lift out, you know? It was always going to be this huge loss, it was always going to be traumatic, he doesn’t just lift out of my life. It was never going to be fucking okay for me that he was dead.”

Harry stubs his toe on the coffee table, but he barely notices the physical pain as the words pour out.

“And he didn’t want to talk about it, and my mom didn’t want to talk about, and my sisters didn’t want to talk about it, and none of my friends knew what to say, and we all just never talked about it. When he died, it was actually a lot sooner than we thought it would be, or I thought. Life expectancy was three to six months, but he only made it seven weeks. And I’ve always thought that he let go when he did because my sister, Kathleen, she’d been living in Boston for a few years at that point, and she called that Sunday and told my parents she was moving home. And my dad was really happy, and I think he thought it was time because he knew we were all going to be together and we could take care of each other, and I always fucking feel like I’m letting him down, we’re not like… a good team. He’d be so disappointed in me.”

“Harry, no, baby, he wouldn’t,” Louis says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “If he knew you at all, and I’m sure he did, he’d know you’re always trying so hard, you’re always trying your best. He could never be disappointed.”

“You really think so?” Harry whispers, halting his frantic pacing and pinching his bottom lip.

“I really think so,” Louis says, his voice steady. Sure. 

And it’s not like Louis knew his dad, it’s not like he’s met any of Harry’s family yet. But something in his voice makes Harry believe him. His shoulders sag and he drops to a crouch, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“You haven’t talked about this stuff before with anyone, have you?” Louis asks gently. 

“No,” Harry says, blinking slowly. His eyes are going to be so puffy tomorrow, they already hurt. “No, I just… I never knew who to go, always got discouraged really easily when I tried and people didn’t seem receptive.”

“Not ever in group or anything?”

“It seemed like too much,” Harry admits. “Even there. I don’t know, I just always felt like a burden–”

“You’re not a burden, Harry,” Louis says fiercely, his light eyes flashing. “You’re not, you’ve been carrying a burden, for a long time, alone. You deserve a partner to help you carry it, and I want to be that person for you. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I just–”

“I know,” Harry interrupts, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I know, I just have a feeling about you, too.”

“Yeah?” Louis looks so pleased, clearly trying to suppress a smile in the midst of the heavy conversation. It’s really fucking cute.

“Yeah,” Harry says, standing and walking over to sit next to Louis on the couch. “I want all of that. I want you.”

Louis leans over and kisses Harry, softly. Chastely. With no intent other than to comfort him. To make a promise, maybe. Louis sits back and puts his arm along the back of the couch, so Harry snuggle in next to him. He gets as physically close to Louis’ body as possible, resting his head on his chest. 

And for a minute, everything is perfect. 

But the longer they sit there quietly, the more something seems off to Harry. He sits still, head against Louis’ chest, as he looks around the room but he can’t quite put his finger on it. That is, until he realizes that it’s actually the absence of something that feels off. A calm settles over him as the realization finally takes shape in his mind. 

After all, he always knew there was something. 

“Lou,” Harry says mildly. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why isn’t your heart beating?”


	11. Chapter 11

Louis freezes, his limbs suddenly stiff. 

When Harry turns to face him, Louis looks more like a statue of a boyfriend on the couch than the real thing in the flesh. The only movement he can spot is in Louis’ pale blue eyes, darting around the room. Harry squints as he finally admits to himself that he’s never been able to put a name to the color because Louis’ eyes aren’t just light or pale. They’re desaturated. Unnatural.

Harry is exhausted, completely spent from their earlier conversation, but an eerie calm has overtaken him and he’s thinking unexpectedly clearly. 

“Lou,” Harry says, touching his shoulder. He has to gently shake him before Louis turns to face him, his face curiously blank. “Lou, can you get me a glass of water? And then you’ll tell me all about it.”

Louis seems to snap back into himself. He looks into Harry’s eyes and nods, parting his lips as if to speak but no words come out.

“When you come back,” Harry reminds him. “You’ll tell me.”

Louis nods again before standing and walking to the kitchen. Harry sits on the edge of the couch cushion, wondering idly where Evie has disappeared to, as the muffled sounds of Louis putting the kettle on reach the living room. It simultaneously seems like an eternity and no time at all before Louis walks back in, holding out a glass of water for Harry. Harry warily accepts it, dread finally starting to creep in, and Louis sits in the chair opposite him. 

Harry almost laughs; it’s so like Louis to know instinctively when to give Harry space. Even in the midst of… whatever this is.

Louis doesn’t speak, staring down at the mug in his hands as Harry observes. He’s not fidgeting, no leg wriggling or toe tapping. His hands are wrapped around the mug. He’s perfectly still.

He always runs cold and his skin is so pale, even in the first blush of summer.

Harry’s never seen him eat, not a meal, not even one of Harry’s cookies.

And when he laid his head over Louis’ heart, it wasn’t beating.

But he’s  _ Louis. _ He’s Harry’s boyfriend, he’s different, he might be the–

“Louis,” Harry starts, cutting off his own train of thought, desperate to sort this out. He falters when Louis looks up at him, hoping he’s wrong. He searches for words, something normal to say in this very abnormal situation. His shoulders sag when something comes to him. “How, um… how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.” Louis smiles sadly, none of the confidence in his voice as he answers this time.

Hating himself for stumbling into the reference, Harry asks the question anyway. “How long have you been twenty-four?”

“Um,” Louis starts, furrowing his brow. “It’s been twenty… seven? No, twenty-eight years.”

Harry blanches as he tries to do the math in his head.

“It’s the same age difference, Harold,” Louis says, his raspy voice still kind. Still human, even if he, somehow, is not. “Fourteen years. Just the other way around.”

Harry covers his face with his hand, barking a laugh as a wild thought pushes its way to the forefront: He’s not a cougar after all. 

“Harry?” Louis’ soft voice breaks its way past his hysteria. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly, scrubbing his face before meeting Louis’ gaze. “I don’t know, I just… I need to know more, I need you to tell me everything, and then maybe I’ll be able to figure out if I’m okay.”

Evie decides to trot back into the room at that point and stop short on her way to her chair, which Louis is currently occupying. Louis’ face softens, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he reaches down to pick her up. She circles in his lap a few times before curling up, throwing a smug look in Harry’s direction as Louis starts to pet her.

“I’m a vampire,” Louis says suddenly, meeting Harry’s eyes unflinchingly. When Harry doesn’t say anything, Louis starts to ramble, “I don’t want to scare you, I’m still me, I promise you, Harry. I’m not dangerous, it honestly feels more like some kind of gene mutation than anything else but that’s the… I’ll start from the beginning, I’ll tell you everything, but that’s the truth, that’s why my heart doesn’t beat, that’s… why everything.”

More puzzle pieces click together in Harry’s brain – Louis prompting Harry to invite him in, the smirk over his shoulder exiting the church, no ticklish spots to be found anywhere on his body despite Harry’s very thorough search – as he nods distractedly, tugging at his lower lip.

“I was at a ski resort,” Louis says, eyes on the purring cat in his lap. He shakes his head, a mirthless laugh escaping his lips. “It was the kind of place I would never have been able to afford on my own. My friend Luke’s aunt worked there, said she could comp the rooms. All we had to do was pay for food and gas. We crammed eight of us into a beat-up van my friend Stan borrowed, ready to see how the other half lived for a weekend.”

“What year was this?” Harry interrupts, trying to visualize and too impatient to do the math in his head. How is there suddenly so much math to do?

“1988,” Louis answers, smiling ruefully. “Think bright colors, lots of hairspray, acid wash jeans.”

Harry’s not sure what it says about him that the only thing to make him shudder so far is the mention of acid wash jeans.

“I know,” Louis laughs. “It was a terrible time.”

He pauses to take a sip of tea, and Harry quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Started as a trick to keep my hands warm,” Louis says by way of explanation. “Then it just became habit, having a cup of tea to sip. That’s why I fidget so much, too, I don’t even think about it anymore.”

Harry nods, one mystery solved. Who knows how many to go.

“So you went skiing and… then what?”

“Well, technically, I didn’t go skiing,” Louis says. “None of us had money to rent equipment, so we just partied in the lounge all weekend, got to be friendly with everyone else at the bar. That’s where I met Zayn.”

Something twists in Harry’s stomach.

“It wasn’t like that,” Louis continues, shaking his head. “You should see your face. No, he just kind of glommed onto our group, doing shots with us and stuff. I was so naive then, I had no idea he thought we, like, belonged there. Had money. That was his MO, he would go to these resorts, mostly cold weather places, ski lodges, things like that, but sometimes he’d try Cancun or Ibiza if he was feeling adventurous and thought he could get away with it. He’d cozy up to a rich mark, drink from them, then raid their room for cash, credit cards, jewelry, anything.”

Harry wrinkles in his nose in disgust.

“After, um, you know,” Louis stumbles over the words, waving his hand. “When he was teaching me how to do it, at first it just seemed like he’d figured out a way to survive, you know? But he enjoyed it all a little too much, the, um… well, the hunt, I guess you’d call it.”

Louis trails off, like he’s finished explaining something when Harry feels like he knows less than he did before.

“After what, Lou?” he asks. Louis winces, but Harry doesn’t waver. “I need you to tell me.”

“The second night, Luke stayed in some girl’s room,” Louis says, sounding far away. “I went back to our room to grab something, cigarettes maybe? Zayn came with, and we were talking about bands and concerts we’d been to, and I was like this guy is great, I feel like I’ve known him forever, you know? Made a new friend. And I think he was feeling a little lonely back then, because once we were in the room, he cornered me and bit my neck, but he stopped himself from killing me. It’s all a blur, but he told me later that he fed me some of his blood and let it works its way into my system. He basically kidnapped me, took me back to his room and let me writhe on the bed for a couple days until it was over.”

“And when you woke up,” Harry says slowly, watching Louis rub idly at his neck, “you were a vampire?”

“Yeah,” Louis says simply. “Zayn took me under his wing, taught me everything I needed to know. Once you have enough cash, everything else becomes easy, fake IDs and documents, stuff like that. I’m not proud of going along with Zayn a few times, but I used the money that I, well, stole from those people to invest so I have something to live off of. I had to figure out feeding on my own, though, when I realized I didn’t want to be like him. Hunting people is easy, it’s hardly even sport, but it’s not like an urge or a need like I was scared it would be. I can sit in this room with you, while you smell like that, knowing your blood would be amazing, but I don’t feel any desire to bite you. My fangs don’t even come in anymore, haven’t for years.”

Setting aside Louis casually discussing how easy it is to hunt people (and how Harry smells), Harry starts with what’s become his most pressing question.

“How do you eat? Or… feed?”

“I buy bags of blood from persuadable employees at hospitals and blood banks,” he answers, shrugging. “I figure it’s better than the alternative at least.”

“The lemon cookie,” Harry says sadly, the realization somehow only hitting him just now. “You never ate it.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Louis replies, scooting to sit on the edge of the chair after Evie jumps off his lap. “I’ve never regretted not being able to eat real food as much as I have since I met you.”

“You really wish you could eat what I bake?” Harry asks, pouting but only a little. It should probably be the least of his concerns, but it feels important.

“Of course I do,” Louis exclaims. “Of course.”

“Okay, but say ‘baby’ again,” Harry prompts him. What he really needs is a hug, but he’s not quite ready for that, so his favorite term of endearment in his favorite voice will have to do.

“Of course I do, baby,” Louis says, smiling so hard his eyes practically disappear in his crinkles.

“So you drink blood,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows. “But you don’t kill people. You can go out in the sun?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis nods. “Always could.”

“You have a reflection in the mirror, though,” Harry points out stubbornly. Is anything he thought he knew true? “And you show up in photos.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Louis nods again. “Not sure if those were myths or if we adapted somewhere along the way.”

The idea of vampires and evolution is a bit much at the moment, so Harry shakes his head to clear it.

“You don’t sleep, do you?”

“No, don’t need to,” Louis replies. “I get a lot of studying done.”

Like with everything else so far, the answer prompts more questions in Harry’s mind.

“Wait, why are you in school?” Harry asks, sitting straight up from where he’d slumped on the couch. “You don’t want to party in Ibiza or whatever, okay, but you could, I don’t know! Travel the world, see other cultures.”

“A couple of reasons,” Louis says, holding out a finger as if to count off the first. “When I was young, I didn’t take school very seriously, just wanted to get by and get out of there. I didn’t appreciate it. And I appreciate it now. I’ve been a history student for twenty years, and I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Harry scrunches his nose to hide his fondness for the answer, but as usual he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

“And then there’s my family,” Louis says softly, pointing a second finger. “I don’t like to be much more than a few hours’ drive from them, so I bounce around colleges mostly in the middle of the country so I can get home easily.”

Harry was reaching for his water glass, so they both notice at the same time that his hands start to shake. As his heart starts to race, Harry realizes that Louis must be able to tell that too.

“Your family?” he asks in a strangled voice.

“My sisters and my brother,” Louis says, his tone careful and calm like that will soothe Harry or something. “Harry, I didn’t lie to you about my family. I mean, I have lied to you but it’s mostly lying by omission, like when I told you Lottie is six years younger than me instead of saying she’s forty-six. Our mom did pass away, when I was twenty-one. I would never, ever lie to you about something like that. Ever. I promise.”

“How do you do that?” Harry asks, his voice wobbly even to his own ears. “How do you read me so well? Is that like a thing, you can read minds?”

He bites his lip as he waits for Louis to answer, knowing that this answer is the one that could make or break them. Even after everything that’s happened tonight, Louis is still  _ Louis _ to him, but if he’s been able to read Harry’s thoughts this whole time… that’s the part he wouldn’t be able to live with.

“No, I can’t,” Louis says simply, no scoffing or feigning disbelief that Harry would ask. A serious answer to a serious question. “I can’t read anyone’s mind, and I can’t read yours. But I can read  _ you, _ Harry. From the first night outside the church, I just felt… connected to you, in tune with you. Like I already knew you. That first morning we spent together, I didn’t have to think, I was acting on instinct, you were so responsive. It was like – it  _ is _ like we were made for each other.”

Harry exhales in relief. His mind is still going a mile a minute, but at least he has that to cling to.

“What else do you want to know?” Louis asks gently.

“Um…” Harry racks his brain. “What about garlic?”

“I don’t mind it,” Louis chuckles. “But really, we said everything. What else do you want to know?”

Harry’s about to throw in the towel, plead to crawl into bed after the long, emotional night and deal with the rest tomorrow, when something occurs to him. Something he shouldn’t wait to say.

“You didn’t tell me,” he starts slowly. “I mean, I probably would have thought you were crazy if you told me. This isn’t something you can tell people.” He looks up, tears in the corners of his eyes. “Lou, I can’t tell anyone about this. And the whole time we’ve known each other, the one thing I’ve been struggling with is not being able to talk to people about what’s going on with me. I’ll never be able to talk to anyone about this. How–”

His voice cracks and the tears slide down his cheeks.

“How could I do that to you,” Louis murmurs. He stands and starts pacing, giving Harry a respectful wide berth. “I’ve asked myself that a hundred times. I tried to stay away from you at first. The first few meetings I went to, I kept to myself, didn’t talk to you even though you’re like a magnet, I’m drawn to you. I tried, I promise. But it’s lonely being like me, I like people, I miss people. That’s why I went to group in the first place, trying to find some people with similar life experience to talk to. Hanging out with twenty-something grad students gets old when you’re, well, old, I guess. At first, I thought, oh I’ll just talk to him once. But from the first minute we spoke, I was a goner. You’re impossible to stay away from, you’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met.”

Louis pauses in the middle of the room.

“I tried, baby,” he says. “But I’ve never been in love like this before.”

The words wrap around Harry, comforting him. Warming him. He reaches a shaky hand out and Louis rushes over to the couch, perching next to him and taking Harry’s warm hand in his. He brings it up his cool lips and presses a lingering kiss to the knuckles.

“I did think of something,” Louis says earnestly. “I told my sister Lottie about you, and she said when I told you – because I was planning on telling you, I promise, I just didn’t have it figured out yet, she said that you could call her. She wants me to bring you home, too. But she’s been through this, kind of, and she’ll understand. All my siblings will.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking. Louis is in love with him. Louis was planning to tell him. Louis’ family wants to meet him. How are all of Harry’s dreams and nightmares coming true at once?

“Your eyes are starting to droop, baby,” Louis says, brushing an errant curl off Harry’s forehead. “Do you want to stay up longer or go to bed?”

Harry desperately wants to curl up his comfy bed, but there’s one more thing that he realizes he has to know tonight.

“Have you thought about it?” he whispers. Louis wrinkles his brow, not catching Harry’s meaning. “Turning me.”

“Oh,” Louis says, understanding dawning on his face. “Baby, I would turn you in a heartbeat if that’s what you really wanted. I have thought about it, but…”

“But what?” Harry asks, not sure what he wants to hear.

“But I don’t  _ want _ to,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hand. “As much as I never want to lose you, as much as I would do anything to ever spare you pain, if I turned you, then I would lose this you, the human you, and I happen to be pretty attached to you.”

Harry blushes, the heat spreading from his cheeks to his throat, as Louis looks on, delighted.

“I would miss seeing you blush,” he says, running a light finger down Harry’s cheek. “You’re so pretty, all rosy pink. I would miss making you blush.”

They both laugh.

“I would miss your heartbeat,” Louis continues, smiling as Harry’s heart beats faster at the words. “I would miss hearing it pick up when you’re excited, hearing it from the other room and just knowing you’re there. I would miss your green eyes, with the little gold flecks. I want to see you grow older, see you with more silver strands of hair than brown. See your little tummy pooch out more.”

“Hey,” Harry whines, moving a hand to cover his belly. Louis throws back his head and laughs. 

“And these,” he says softly, caressing the crinkles by Harry’s eyes. “I want to see the smile lines on your face get deeper the older you are and the more I can make you smile. I like seeing the world through your eyes, baby. I would love to see how your perspective changes as a human as you get older. I want… I want all of it, I want everything, I want a life with you. One lifetime. Is that… is that okay? That I want that?” 

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry murmurs. He lifts a hand to cup Louis’ cheek but a yawn escapes him, so he moves it to cover his mouth instead. He smiles sheepishly. “I think I have to go to bed.”

He stands up and holds a hand out to Louis.

“Oh, do you… can I…”

“Stay,” Harry says, grasping Louis’ hand in his and tugging at him to stand. “Stay tonight. Please?”

“You want me to?” Louis asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Harry looks into his eyes, imagining the shade of blue they might have been before the life was bleached out of them, and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

“Yes,” he says, gently toying with the longer piece of Louis’ silky hair that Jade cut in front. “Lou, I love you. I want you to stay with me. We can start figuring this, us, out tomorrow. But tonight, can you just take care of me?”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately.  _ “Yes.” _

Harry shuffles after Louis, yawning as he takes care of Evie’s litter box and fills her water dish before locking the doors and turning off the lights. 

“I’ll get blankets while you get ready for bed,” Louis tells him in the hallway, kissing the tip of his nose. If he was trying to make Harry smile, it worked. “That way, you won’t catch a chill if I’m in there with you.”

“Wait,” Harry protests, tugging Louis’ hand as he tries to walk away. “Aren’t you going to brush your teeth?”

“Um, no?” Louis tries. He shrugs. “It’s kind of like a self cleaning oven in there, Harold. No fuss, no muss.”

“I think blood counts as muss, Lou,” Harry says, not bothering to hide the scandalized expression he knows is on his face. He pulls Louis into the bathroom and hands him the toothbrush he used before. “Go on, fuss. For me?”

“Okay, okay,” Louis says, taking the toothbrush for him. “God, this is so weird.”

“If you’re going to stay,” Harry insists, the words garbled around his own toothbrush, “you have to brush your teeth. Non-negotiable.”

Louis nods and holds his free hand out to shake Harry’s. They finish up and head down the hall to the bedroom, stopping at the linen closet along the way for blankets. Once the bed is made up and they’ve both stripped down to their boxers, they crawl into bed. Louis makes sure Harry’s phone is plugged in before he lets him turn the light off. They get comfy, facing each other.

“Are you going to stay right here?” Harry asks, reaching out to toy with Louis’ fingers. “Like, do you watch me sleep?”

“Sometimes,” Louis shrugs. “Sorry, I know, it’s creepy. But you’re beautiful when you sleep, it’s hard not to. Might read a book or something, but I’ll stay right here.”

“That’s where I want you,” Harry says, letting his eyes drift closed. “Right here.”


	12. Chapter 12

**7 MONTHS LATER**

“Oh, let’s stop in here for a drink!”

Jade comes to a stop on the sidewalk when she sees the look that Harry is giving her and throws her gloved hands up, rolling her eyes.

“There’s no party,” she insists, tugging at the sleeve of Harry’s nice black winter coat. That she had insisted he wear. Even though there’s no party.

“Jade,” Harry says, boots firmly planted on the sidewalk. “You’re telling me, if we go into this bar that you just happened to suggest stopping into for a drink, we aren’t going to be greeted by twenty of my closest friends yelling  _ surprise?” _

“More like thirty of your closest friends,” she finally admits, shrugging. “Last I saw the guest list, anyway.”

“I told him I didn’t want a party,” Harry groans, allowing Jade to pull him toward the door.

“Too bad,” she says cheerfully, turning to assess his appearance. She ruffles his curls and dusts some snowflakes off of his shoulders. “Your boyfriend loves you. You two are sickeningly happy. And you’re getting a party for your birthday.” 

She pats his cheek before turning and opening the door. Harry follows her through it into the newish wine bar downtown that he usually doesn’t walk into wincing in anticipation. 

“Surprise!”

Even though he knew it was coming, has suspected for weeks as a matter of fact, Harry still jumps and clutches his chest. He smiles as everyone claps and whoops, searching the crowd for his boyfriend. But his friends swarm him, drawing him into hugs and giving him kisses on the cheek, and he gives up trying to locate him for now, hoping Louis will come find him. 

It takes several minutes to wade through the crowd, during which Niall takes his coat and scarf and Jesy thrusts a glass of white wine into his hands. Harry’s grateful for the bit of air when he reaches the bar, where Louis finally sidles up to him, blinking innocently.

“What?” he asks, his hands behind his back and failing to bite back the smile on his face.

“I seem to recall,” Harry says, scratching his chin, “mentioning to  _ somebody _ that I didn’t want a party. Now, who was that? Who could that have been?”

Louis stands on his tiptoes and kisses the cold tip of Harry’s nose, distracting him as he places something on his head. 

“Wait, I know,” Harry deadpans. “It was you, I told  _ you _ I didn’t want a party.”

“Hang on, gotta do a quick selfie, Harold,” Louis says, pulling out his phone. “For the ’gram, you know how it is.”

Louis turns to stand next to him, holding his phone up, and snaps a photo. As he fiddles with his phone, uploading it to Instagram and adding a hashtag, Harry sees in the picture that he does in fact have a small Happy Birthday tiara placed crookedly atop his curls. He straightens it by feel as Louis finishes up, to Louis’ utter delight if the grin on his face is anything to go by. 

“Okay, I know you said you didn’t want a party,” Louis says seriously, stepping into Harry’s space and lowering his voice. “But I also know how hard your birthday has been the past few years and how much your friends love you and want to be there for you, and I just… decided to go for it? But I didn’t let Jade talk me into a theme! And you know how she is!”

Harry sighs. Yes, he does know how persuasive she can be. He should probably count himself lucky that Louis took charge.

“I just kind of wanted to let it pass,” he whispers into Louis’ ear. “Not make a big deal.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Louis says, settling his hands on Harry’s love handles. “But I thought it might make you feel good to see how much everyone cares about you, like all in one room. You don’t lift out, you know? You’re important.”

Harry had made it the entire day without crying. He hadn’t cried when Louis had woken him up with a lopsided chocolate cake. No tears when he’d had lunch with his family and not gotten a word in edgewise while the other adults let his three nephews dominate the conversation. Not even when he’d watched  _ This Is Where I Leave You _ in an attempt to have a good cry and get it out the way in a controlled setting. But tears pool in his eyes at Louis’ words and he lets himself take them, take Louis’ intent, to heart. 

“Baby, no,” Louis whispers, wiping away Harry’s tears with his thumbs. “No, don’t cry.”

“It’s my party,” Harry says, jutting his chin out. “And I’ll cry if I want to.” 

“Harry!” A bright-eyed Jesy appears at his side, breaking up their intimate moment. She elbows him in the side, literally breaking them apart. “Drink up! You haven’t touched your wine!”

“We’re celebrating!” Liam chimes in, materializing behind her. “It’s your birthday!”

Louis shrugs and smiles apologetically, leaning in to murmur, “I miscalculated the timing, I thought Jade could get you here sooner, so everyone’s already a couple drinks in.”

Harry laughs and lifts his glass to them before taking his first sip, finally ready to let his friends’ enthusiasm start to catch on. They cheer as he drains his glass, and Liam waves to get the bartender’s attention.

“What next, Harry?” he asks, as the bartender starts making his way to their end of the bar. “Champagne? No, prosecco? Rosé? Riesling?”

“Wow, he’s really got your number,” Louis mutters, shaking his head.

“That’s right,” Liam exclaims, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “I love this man, he’s one of my best friends!” He turns to Jesy, asking, “Say, Jes, remember that time Harry drank, like, at least half a bottle of gin, right–”

“Excuse me, Liam,” Harry interrupts, clapping a hand over his mouth as Jesy squawks with laughter. “No one needs to be reminded of that, thank you very much.”

“Ah, so there’s a story there,” Louis says, light eyes twinkling mischievously. “That’s why you prefer wine to the hard stuff?”

“Louis, we have so many stories about this one,” Jesy interjects, leaning across Liam to pinch Harry’s cheek. “It’ll take years to fill you in on all of them.”

“Well, luckily, I think we have that,” Louis says, with a smile just for Harry. “Harold, you want rosé?”

“Yes, please,” Harry replies, trying to wriggle away as Liam smacks a kiss to his cheek.

“Everyone’s here,” Jesy says loudly, waving a hand around the bar. “Harry, everyone came, even Nick, look, he’s over in the corner with his boyfriend talking to Leigh. Got in from New York last night.”

“Shit, really?” Harry says, craning his neck as he looks around the bar. “I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Yes, really,” Liam says, ruffling his hair. “We love you, man.”

Louis turns from the bar with a fresh glass of rosé and hands it to Harry.

“Now, go mingle, Harold,” Louis commands, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Be merry.”

Harry ducks in and brushes a kiss against Louis’ soft lips as Liam and Jesy whoop at them. He holds up his middle finger at them and kisses Louis, once, twice more before straightening up.

“Okay,” he says, lifting his glass. “Let’s party.”

Harry relaxes into being the center of attention, accepting hugs and well wishes. The different groups of people that Louis has invited are mixing together nicely; Harry spots Paul from group chatting with Perrie and Niall, and Mitch and Sarah seem content to spend the night in the corner, flirting shamelessly. Jeff, who hasn’t asked Harry for feedback on his writing in months, and James are having some kind of hopefully good-natured debate at the other end of the bar, and Harry is grateful that they’re occupying each other’s time so he doesn’t have to.

As Harry drifts between small groups of friends and acquaintances, he notices Louis doing the same out of the corner of his eye. He flits about, checking on everyone and making sure they have a drink in their hand while going without one for himself. Everyone lights up when they see Louis approach, and Harry can’t quite believe how lucky he is that the love of his life blends so seamlessly into it. 

Trying to pace himself since there’s no worse way to spend a Sunday than hungover, with a queasy stomach and a pounding head, Harry gets a glass of water at the bar and turns, leaning his back against it as he takes a sip. A flash of gold sequins appears to his left.

“Babes!” Jade squeals, tickling his side. “Are you having the best time?”

“Yes, yes,” Harry cries, trying to fend her off without spilling. “I am, I swear! Stop!”

“See,” she says, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I knew you would. Barkeep!”

Harry winces as she shouts in his ear, wondering how many glasses of prosecco she’s had.

“Another?”

“Another!” Jade answers the cheerful bartender who’s been serving them all night. She tries to pound her fist on the bar, but misses and, spying the look Harry is giving her, she preempts his question with a huff, saying, “Harry, it’s a  _ party. _ And it’s only my third glass, I’m not wasted, I’m just  _ happy. _ For  _ you. _ On your  _ birthday.” _

Harry lifts his eyebrows at the bartender as he slides Jade’s drink over to her, and he nods.

“Hey, man, just so you know,” he says, checking his watch. “You guys are supposed to be doing cake in a few minutes.”

“Cake!” Jade exclaims, raising her glass to Harry. “Oh, god, I can’t wait. It was a secret order at the bakery, half chocolate and half that, like, confetti thing you guys do? There was so much subterfuge, babes, you would not believe the group chats about this party.”

“Funfetti,” Harry corrects her, furrowing his brow. He’d known Louis was up to something, but he’d never suspected his employees. Insubordination, plain and simple. “Like the box mixes, but better.”

“See, there Louis is in the corner,” Jade crows, ignoring him and pointing across the room. “Look, he and Sarah are setting the candles out! You did so well, babes, aren’t you glad I told you to text him? He’s so funny and nice and he loves you and he’s so  _ cute.” _

“He is,” Harry agrees, smiling into his glass.

“What I can’t figure out,” Jade says thoughtfully, “is why he hasn’t needed another trim. Like what, his hair just doesn’t grow?”

Harry quickly drains the rest of his water and flags down the bartender. “Can we have another round of prosecco? It’s a party!”

“That’s the spirit,” Jade cries, toasting Harry and taking a long drink of her wine. 

The lights dim just as Harry and Jade pick up their fresh drinks and they turn from the bar back to the crowd. Everyone starts singing Happy Birthday as Louis makes his way toward Harry, carrying a cake covered with flickering candles. Harry’s felt comfortable, like himself, all night but he can’t help blushing as Louis sets the cake on the bar next to him. Everyone’s eyes are on him, and there’s more than one wine-fueled cheer from the crowd.

“Baby,” Louis murmurs, his pale skin warmed by the cheap grocery store birthday candle light. “Make a wish.”

Harry takes an exaggerated breath in and attempts to blow the candles out as his friends start clapping. It takes an extra huff or two, but he manages to get them all and turns to Louis with a proud grin. Before he can get a word out, Louis swoops in and kisses him, eliciting more cheers.

“Well?” Louis asks as he draws back, his pale eyes twinkling.

“Well what?” Harry laughs.

_ “Well,” _ Louis continues, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins, “did it come true?” 

“Oh my god,” Harry giggles. He falls against Louis and hides his face in his neck, letting the cool skin soothe his still warm cheeks. “You’re worse than I am.”

“Oh, please.” 

A familiar booming voice grabs Harry’s attention and he straightens up to see his best friend holding two small plates full of cake.

“No one is worse than you, Harold,” Nick declares, holding out one of the plates. He jerks his chin toward an empty table. “Come on, birthday boy, come eat some cake with your oldest friend.”

“You’re not old,” Harry says automatically, falling into their routine. He takes the plate from Nick, who immediately uses his free hand to point at the corner of his eye.

“What’s this then?” he demands, leaning in closer. “Crow’s feet, don’t lie to me.”

“Shut up,” Harry laughs, doing his best to elbow Nick with a glass in one hand and a plate in the other. “You’re the same age as me. Just a few months older. Five, to be exact.”

“He loves twisting the knife, doesn’t he,” Nick says wryly, shaking his head at Louis. “Don’t know how you put up with him.”

“Very easily,” Louis says, kissing Harry’s cheek. He follows it up with a playful slap to Harry’s bum. “Go on, I’m gonna go see if Sarah needs help serving.”

Harry follows Nick to the empty table, choosing the seat next to him instead of across so they can actually hear each other. Looking down at the small paper plate, he sees that Nick got him a corner piece, the vanilla cake peppered with dots of funfetti coloring.

“So,” Nick starts, gently kicking Harry’s foot to get his attention. “Having fun? This is quite the party your boy has thrown.”

“Yeah, actually,” Harry replies, smiling down at his cake. “More than I thought I would.”

“I know, um…” Nick blows out a breath as he runs a hand through his tall hair. He shrugs. “Birthdays can be hard, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, taking a bite of his cake. “Really fucking hard. This one’s been, like… kind of okay, though.”

“Probably because I’m here,” Nick says, doing the motion of tossing hair over his shoulder. Harry laughs, but Nick smiles sadly at him. “Sorry, I promised myself I was going to get through this without joking around, but I really suck at this.”

“This?” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him. “What’s this?”

“I know I haven’t really been there for you,” Nick says simply, looking him straight in the eye. “And being here in person seemed like a good time to tell you I’m sorry about that. It’s just…”

Harry doesn’t say anything as Nick trails off, looking around the room, giving him some room to gather his thoughts. One thing therapy has helped him with is perspective, and he thinks he already has a better understanding of how hard it might have been for Nick to be present for him when he was going through so much himself the past few years, but he wants to hear from Nick what he came here to tell him.

“Grief can make you selfish, you know,” Nick says finally, turning back to Harry. “Everything kind of shrinks down to you and your problems, makes it hard to see anything else.”

Harry nods and reaches across the table, squeezing Nick’s hand. “I do know. I know.”

“And it’s so stupid,” Nick continues with a bitter laugh. “Because it seems like it would be so much easier to, like, grieve with someone, right? But I just kind of closed in and dealt with it myself. Like my dad would have, actually.”

Harry laughs, thinking of Nick’s dad, a kind man but the very definition of stiff upper lip. 

“Sounds like Pete,” Harry agrees, squeezing Nick’s hand before releasing it. “Wait, you need a drink, we should toast him.”

“We can in a minute,” Nick says, shaking his head. “He would have preferred to be toasted with Guiness, but I doubt it’s on tap here. But seriously, Harry, I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I just–”

“I know,” Harry interrupts. “And I get it. You’re still my best friend.”

“I am? Not Jade?” Nick smirks. “You know she posts selfies with you constantly. It’s annoying.”

“Best friend isn’t a person,” Harry reminds him. “It’s a tier.”

Nick laughs and shoves at his shoulder, and they turn their attention to their slices of cake, eating in companionable silence. It’s like yet another weight has been lifted from Harry’s shoulders, and he didn’t even have to do the emotional heavy lifting this time. 

“I know I told you,” Nick says suddenly, like he’s just remembered something. “But I really liked that piece you sent me. It’s one of the best things you’ve ever written.”

“Oh,” Harry says, startled into a blush. He takes a sip of wine and manages not to choke on it even though he’s flustered. “Oh, thanks. Yeah, I guess I got inspired.”

“A novella about finding love, real love, after a lifetime of missed chances?” Nick says as they both look over to the bar where Louis and Mesh are chatting. “Yeah, I bet you did. You know when even Mitch fucking Rowland describes something as dreamy and atmospheric, you’ve done something right.”

Harry barks a loud, embarrassing laugh at that, drawing Louis’ attention. He mouths “what?” but Harry just shakes his head.

“Come on,” he says, nudging Nick’s shoulder. “Let’s go get you that drink, do our toast.”

They rejoin the party, letting their tipsy friends toast along with them even though they don’t know what, or who, they’re toasting to. People start leaving in pairs and small groups after that round of drinks, and Harry loses track of how many lipstick smudges he must have on his cheeks from kisses goodbye. Elaborate brunch plans are made for the next day with Niall and Liam and the girls, as well as Nick and Mesh, who are surprisingly comfortable with public displays of affection, before they have to leave for the airport. There’s just a few stragglers left at midnight, and Louis closes his tab as Harry hugs Sarah goodbye, making her promise to dish about Mitch seeing her home the next time they work together.

Harry sits at the bar with the dregs of his last drink, watching as Jesy twirls Jade on the makeshift dance floor. They make a pretty sight, their long locks flowing and sequins flashing. Louis sits on the stool next to him, nudging his shoulder. 

“So,” he says lowly, for only Harry to hear. “How does it feel to be thirty-nine?”

It’s a serious question, Harry thinks. Not a joke or cliche. So he watches the girls twirl some more as he muses his answer.

When Harry’s dad died, everything changed. In an instant, even though he knew it was coming. It’s not like there’s an actual way to prepare and besides – even when you know someone is going to die, you don’t quite believe it until they actually do. It had made death real in a way it hadn’t felt before and made Harry feel scared all the time. Not just of dying, but dying alone, being in pain. Harry had tried to cope on his own, but it was all too much.

It had taken meeting Louis, falling in love with him, finding out what he was and falling in love with him all over again after that to allay his fears. Louis has never wanted to turn Harry, but Harry’s always known that he would if that was really what Harry wanted. It’s like having a get out of death free card in his back pocket. But, at least for now, Louis’ existence isn’t what Harry wants. 

He’s spent a lot of time pondering the meaning of life over the past year, as pretentious as that sounds. And for him, it’s not an infinite amount of time to spend on earth doing… what? Studying, traveling, pursuing whims? How does one appreciate that time, make it matter, make it meaningful, if it just goes on forever? 

The meaning of life was right here in this room tonight, as much as he’d resisted the idea of coming. Connection, telling the people who you love that you do, being as honest and kind as you can, that’s what life – or at least, Harry’s life – is about. And the most that Harry can ask for is to feel ready for it when it’s his time to go, so he’s going to make the fucking most of it while he’s here.

He turns back to his boyfriend, who’s watching him expectantly with bright but pale blue eyes.

“It feels good,” he says, taking Louis’ hand in his, reveling in the familiar feel of his cool skin. “It feels really good.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading <3 [ fic post](https://disgruntledkittenface.tumblr.com/post/186771514347/we-should-open-up-before-its-all-too-much)


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